The 


yyt^My^- 


Christian 

A  Story 

By         , 

Hall   Caine 

Author  of  The  Manxman 


SEVENTH  EDITION' 

UNiv^Rsmr 

New  York 
D.  Appleton  and  Company 

1898 


Copyright,  1896,  1897, 
By  HALL  CAINE. 

All  rights  reserved. 


CONTENTS, 


FIRST  BOOK. 

PAGE 

The  outer  world 1 

SECOND  BOOK. 
The  religious  life 135 

THIRD   BOOK. 
The  devil's  acre 270 

FOURTH  BOOK. 
Sanctuary      .......    429 


ll^'^'S 


The  period  of  the  story  is  the  last 
quarter  of  the  nineteerith  century. 
No  particular  years  are  intended. 
The  time  occupied  hy  the  incidents  of 
the  First  Book  is  about  six  motiths, 
of  the  Second  Book  about  six  months, 
of  the  Third  Book  about  six  months; 
then  tJiere  is  an  interval  of  half 
a  year,  and  the  time  occupied  by 
the  incidents  of  the  Fourth  Book 
is  about  six  weeks.  An  Author's 
.Note    u'ill    be    found    at    the    end. 


THE  CHRISTIAN. 

FIRST   BOOK. 
THE  OUTER    WORLD. 


On  the  morning  of  tlie  9th  of  May,  18 — ,  three  persons  im- 
portant to  this  story  stood  among  the  passengers  on  the  deck 
of  the  Isle  of  Man  steamship  Tymcald  as  she  lay  by  the 
pier  at  Douglas  getting  up  steam  for  the  passage  to  Liver- 
pool. One  of  these  was  an  old  clergyman  of  seventy,  with 
a  sweet,  mellow,  childlike  face ;  another  was  a  young  man 
of  thirty,  also  a  clergyman  ;  the  "third  was  a  girl  of  twenty. 
The  older  clergyman  wore  a  white  neckcloth  about  his 
throat,  and  was  dressed  in  rather  threadbare  black  of  a  cut 
that  had  been  more  common  twenty  years  before ;  tlie 
younger  clergyman  wore  a  Roman  collar,  a  long  clerical 
coat,  and  a  stiflF,  broad-brimmed  hat  with  a  cord  and  tassel. 
They  stood  amidships,  and  the  captain,  coming  out  of  his 
room  to  mount  the  bridge,  saluted  them  as  he  passed. 

"  Good  morning,  Mr.  Storm." 

The  young  clergyman  returned  the  salutation  with  a 
slight  bow  and  the  lifting  of  his  hat. 

"  Morning  to  you.  Parson  Quayle." 

The  old  clergyman  answered  cheei'ily,  "  Oh,  good  morn- 
ing, captain ;  good  morning." 

There  was  the  usual  inquiry  about  the  weather  outside, 
and  drawing  up  to  answer  it,  the  captain  came  eye  to  eye 
with  the  girl. 

"So  this  is  the  granddaughter,  is  it  ?  " 

"  Yes,  this  is  Glory,"  said  Parsou  Quayle.  "  She's  leav- 
1 


2  THE   CHRISTIAN. 

ing  the  old  grandfather  at  last,  captain,  and  I'm  over  from 
Peel  to  set  her  off,  you  see." 

"  Well,  the  young  lady  has  got  the  world  before  her — at 
her  feet,  I  ought  to  say. — You're  looking  as  bright  and  fresh 
as  the  morning.  Miss  Quayle." 

The  captain  carried  off  his  compliment  with  a  breezy 
laugh,  and  went  along  to  the  bridge.  The  girl  had  heard 
him  only  in  a  momentary  flash-  of  consciousness,  and  she 
replied  merely  with  a  side  glance  and  a  smile.  Both  eyes 
and  ears,  and  every  sense  and  every  faculty,  seemed  occupied 
with  the  scene  before  her. 

It  w4s  a  beautiful  spring  morning,  not  yet  nine  o'clock, 
but  the  sun  stood  high  over  Douglas  Head,  and  the  sunlight 
was  glancing  in  the  harbour  fi'om  the  little  waves  of  the 
flowing  tide.  Cars  were  rattling  up  the  pier,  passengers 
were  trooping  down  the  gangways,  and  the  decks  fore  and 
aft  were  becoming  thronged. 

"  It's  beautiful ! "  she  was  saying,  not  so  much  to  her 
companions  as  to  herself,  and  the  old  parson  was  laughing 
at  her  bursts  of  rapture  over  the  commonplace  scene,  and 
dropping  out  in  reply  little  driblets  of  simple  talk-  sweet, 
pure  nothings — the  innocent  babble  as  of  a  mountain  sti'eam. 

She  was  taller  than  the  common,  and  had  golden-red 
hair,  and  magnificent  dark-gray  eyes  of  great  size.  One  of 
her  eyes  had  a  brown  spot,  which  gave  at  the  first  glance  the 
effect  of  a  squint,  at  the  next  glance  a  coquettish  expression, 
and  ever  after  a  sense  of  tremendous  power  and  passion. 
But  her  most  noticeable  feature  was  her  mouth,  which  was 
somewhat  too  large  for  beauty,  and  was  always  moving 
nervously.  When  she  spoke,  her  voice  startled  you  witli  its 
depth,  which  was  a  kind  of  soft  hoarseness,  but  capable  of 
every  shade  of  colour.  There  was  a  playful  and  impetuous 
raillery  in  nearly  all  she  said,  and  everything  seemed  to  be 
expressed  by  mind  and  body  at  the  same  time.  She  moved 
her  body  restlessly,  and  while  standing  in  the  same  place 
her  feet  were  always  sluilHing.  Her  dress  was  homely — al- 
most poor — and  perhaps  a  little  careless.  She  appeared  to 
smile  and  laugh  continually,  and  yet  there  were  tears  in  her 
eyes  sometimes. 

The  young  clergyman  was  of  a  good  average  he^  '  n     -t 


THE   OUTER  WORLD.  3 

he  looked  taller  from  a  certain  distinction  of  figure.  "Wlien 
he  raised  his  hat  at  the  captain's  greeting  he  showed  a  fore- 
head like  an  arched  wall,  and  a  large,  close-cropped  head. 
He  had  a  well-formed  nose,  a  powerful  chin,  and  full  lips — 
all  veiy  strong  and  set  for  one  so  young.  His  complexion 
was  dark — almost  swarthy — and  there  was  a  certain  look  of 
the  gipsy  in  his  big  golden-brown  eyes  with  their  long  black 
lashes.  He  was  clean  shaven,  and  the  lower  pai't  of  his  face 
seemed  heavy  under  the  splendid  fire  of  the  eyes  above  it. 
His  manner  had  a  sort  of  diffident  restraint ;  he  stood  on  the 
same  spot  without  moving,  and  almost  without  raising  his 
drooping  head  ;  his  speech  was  grave  and  usually  slow  and 
laboured  ;  his  voice  was  bold  and  full. 

The  second  bell  had  rung,  and  the  old  parson  was  making 
ready  to  go  ashore. 

"  You'll  take  care  of  this  runaway,  Mr.  Storm,  and  deliver 
her  safely  at  the  door  of  the  hospital  ? " 

"  I  will." 

"  And  you'll  keep  an  eye  on  her  in  that  big  Babylon  over 
there  ? " 

"If  she'll  let  me,  sir." 

"  Yes,  indeed,  yes ;  I  know  she's  as  unstable  as  water  and 
as  hard  to  hold  as  a  puff  of  wind." 

The  girl  was  laughing  again.  "  You  might  as  well  call 
me  a  tempest  and  have  done  with  it,  or,"  with  a  glance  at 
the  younger  man,  "  say  a  storm — Glory  St Oh  ! " 

With  a  little  catch  of  the  breath  she  arrested  the  name 
before  it  was  uttered  by  her  impetuous  tongue,  and  laughed 
again  to  cover  her  confusion.  The  young  man  smiled  faint- 
ly and  rather  painfully,  but  the  old  parson  was  conscious 
of  nothing. 

"  Well,  and  why  not  ?  A  good  name  for  j'ou  too,  and 
you  richly  deserve  it. — But  the  Lord  is  lenient  with  such 
natures,  John.  He  never  tries  them  beyond  their  strength. 
She  hasn't  much  leaning  to  religion,  you  know."  ' 

The  girl  recalled  herself  from  the  busy  scene  around  and 
broke  in  again  with  a  tone  of  humour  and  pathos  mixed. 

"There,  call  me  an  infidel  at  once,  grandfather.  I  know 
what  you  mean.  But  just  tc  show  you  that  I  haven't  exact- 
ly registered  a  vow  in  heaven  never  to  go  to  church  in  Lon- 


4  THE   CHRISTIAN. 

don  because  youVe  given  me  such  a  dose  of  it  in  the  Isle 
of  Man,  I'll  promise  to  send  you  a  full  and  particular  re- 
port of  Mr.  Storm's  first  sermon.  Isn't  that  charming  of 
me  ? " 

The  third  bell  was  ringing,  the  blast  of  the  steam  whistle 
was  echoing  across  the  bay,  and  the  steamer  was  only  wait- 
ing for  the  mails.  Taking  a  step  nearer  to  the  gangway,  the 
old  parson  talked  faster. 

"  Did  Aunt  Anna  give  you  money  enough,  child  ?  " 

"  Enough  for  my  boat  fai'e  and  niy  train." 

"  No  more  !    Now  Anna  is  so " 

"Don't  trouble,  grandfather.  Woman  wants  but  little 
here  below — Aunt  Anna  excepted.  And  then  a  hospital 
nurse " 

"  I'm  afraid  you'll  feel  lonely  in  that  great  wilderness." 

"  Lonely  with  five  millions  of  neighbours  ?  " 

"  You'll  be  longing  for  the  old  island,  Glory,  and  I  half 
repent  me  already— — " 

" If  ever  I  have  the  blue-devils,  grandpa,  111  just  whip 
on  my  cape  and  fly  home  again." 

"  To-morrow  morning  I'll  be  searching  all  over  the  house 
for  my  runaway." 

Grlory  tried  to  laugh  gaily.  "  Upstairs,  downstairs,  and 
in  my  lady's  chamber." 

"  '  Gloi'y,'  I'll  be  crying,  '  Where's  the  girl  gone  at  all  ?  I 
haven't  heard  her  voice  in  the  house  to-day.  What's  come 
over  the  old  place  to  strike  it  so  dead  ? '  " 

The  girl's  eyes  were  running  over,  but  in  a  tone  of  gentle 
raillery  and  heart's  love  she  said  severely :  "  Nonsense, 
grandfather,  yovi'll  forget  all  about  Glory  going  to  London 
before  the  day  after  to-morrow.  Every  morning  you'll  be 
making  rubbings  of  your  old  runes,  and  every  night  you'll 
be  playing  chess  with  Aunt  Rachel,  and  every  Sunday 
you'll  be  scolding  old  Neilus  for  falling  asleep  in  the  read- 
ing desk,  and — and  everything  will  go  on  just  the  same  as 
ever." 

The  mails  had  come  aboard,  one  of  the  gangways  had 
been  drawn  ashore,  and  the  old  parson,  holding  his  big 
watch  in  his  left  hand,  was  diving  into  his  fob-i)ockot  with 
the  fincers  of  the  right. 


THE   OUTER  WORLD.  5 

"Here" — panting  audibly,  as  if  he  had  been  running 
hard — "is  your  mother's  little  pearl  ring." 

The  girl  drew  off  her  slack,  soiled  glove  and  took  the 
ring  in  her  nervous  lingers. 

"A  wonderful  talisman  is  the  relic  of  a  good  mother, 
sir,"  said  the  old  parson. 

The  young  clergyman  bent  his  head. 

"  You'i'e  like  Glory  herself  in  that  though — you  don't  re- 
member your  mother  either." 

"  No— no." 

"  I'll  keep  in  touch  with  your  father,  John,  trust  me  for 
that.  You  and  he  shall  be  good  friends  yet.  A  man  can't 
hold  out  against  his  son  for  nothing  worse  than  choos- 
ing the  Church  against  the  world.  The  old  man  didn't 
mean  all  he  said  ;  and  then  it  isn't  the  thunder  that  strikes 
people  dead,  you  know.  So  leave  him  to  me ;  and  if  that 
foolish  old  Chaise  hasn't  been  putting  notions  into  his 
head " 

The  throbbing  in  the  steam  funnel  had  ceased  and  in 
tlie  sudden  hush  a  voice  from  the  bridge  cried,  "  All 
ashore ! " 

"  Good-bye,  Glory  !    Good-bye,  John !    Good-bye  both  ! " 

"Good-bye,  sir,"  said  the  young  clergyman  with  a  long 
hand-clasp. 

But  the  girl's  arms  were  about  the  old  mail's  neck. 
"  Good-bye,  you  dear  old  grandpa,  and  I'm  ashamed  I— I'm 
sorry  I — I  mean  it's  a  shame  of  me  to — good-bye  ! " 

"  Good-bye,  my  wandering  gipsy,  my  witch,  my  run- 
away ! " 

"  If  you  call  me  names  I'll  have  to  stop  your  mouth,  sir. 
Again — another " 

A  voice  cried,  "  Stand  back  there  !  " 

The  young  clergyman  drew  the  girl  back  from  the  bul- 
warks, and  the  steamer  moved  slowly  away. 

"  I'll  go  below — no,  I  won't ;  I'll  stay  on  deck.  I'll  go 
ashore — I  can't  bear  it ;  it's  not  too  late  yet.  No,  I'll  go  to 
the  stern  and  see  the  water  in  the  wake." 

The  pier  was  cleared  and  the  harbour  was  empty.  Over 
the  white  churning  water  the  sea  gulls  were  wheeling,  and 
Douglas  Head  was  gliding  slowly  back.     Down  the  long 


6         ■  THE   CHRISTIAN. 

line  of  the  quay  the  friends  of  the  passengers  were  waving 
adieus. 

"  There  he  is,  on  the  end  of  the  pier !  That's  grandpa 
waving  his  handkerchief !  Don't  you  see  it  ?  The  red-and- 
white  cotton  one  !  God  bless  him  !  How  wae  his  little  pres- 
ent made  me  !  He  has  been  keeping  it  all  these  years.  But 
my  silk  handkerchief  is  too  damp — it  won't  float  at  all. 
Will  you  lend  me Ah,  thank  you !  Good-bye !  good- 
bye !  good " 

The  girl  hung  over  the  stern  rail,  leaning  her  breast  upon 
it  and  waving  the  handkerchief  as  long  as  the  pier  and  its 
people  were  in  sight,  and  when  they  were  gone  from  recog- 
nition she  watched  the  line  of  the  land  until  it  began  to  fade 
into  the  clouds,  and  there  was  no  more  to  be  seen  of  what 
she  had  looked  upon  every  day  of  her  life  until  to-day. 

"  The  dear  little  island  !  I  never  thought  it  was  so  beau- 
tiful !  Perhaps  I  might  have  been  happy  even  there,  if  I 
had  tried.  Now,  if  I  had  only  had  somebody  for  company  I 
How  silly  of  me  !  I've  been  five  years  wishing  and  praying 
to  get  away,  and  now !  .  .  .  It  iS  lovely,  though,  isn't  it  ? 
Just  like  a  bird  on  the  water !  And  when  you've  been  born 
in  a  place  .  .  .  the  dear  little  island!  And  the  old  folks, 
too  !  How  lonely  they'll  be,  after  all !  I  wonder  if  I  shall 
ever  ...  I'll  go  below.  The  wind's  freshening,  and  this 
water  in  the  wake  is  making  my  eyes  .  .  .  Good-bye,  little 
birdie !    I'll  come  back— I'll  .  .  .    Yes,  never  fear,  I'll '' 

The  laughter  and  impetuous  talking,  the  gentle  humour 
and  pathos,  had  broken  at  length  into  a  sob,  and  the  girl  had 
wheeled  about  and  disappeared  down  the  cabin  stairs.  John 
Storm  stood  looking  after  her.  He  had  hardly  spoken,  but 
his  great  brown  eyes  were  moist. 


II. 

Her  father  had  been  the  only  son  of  Parson  Quayle,  and 

chaplain  to  the  bishop  at  Bishopscourt.  It  was  there  he  had 
met  her  motlier,  wlio  was  lady's  maid  to  the  bishop's  wife. 
The  maid  was  a  bright  young  Frenchwoman,  daughter  of  a 
French  actress,  famous  in  her  day,  and  of  an  ollicer  under 


THE  OUTER  WORLD.  7 

the  Empire,  who  had  never  been  told  of  her  existence. 
Shortly  after  their  marriage  the  chaplain  was  offered  a 
big  mission  station  in  Africa,  and,  being  a  devotee,  he 
clutched  at  it  without  fear  of  the  fevers  of  the  coast.  But 
his  young  French  wife  was  about  to  become  a  mother,  and 
she  shrank  from  the  perils  of  his  life  abroad,  so  he  took  her 
to  his  father's  house  at  Peel,  and  bade  her  farewell  for  five 
years. 

He  lived  four,  and  during  that  time  they  exchanged  some 
letters.  His  final  instructions  were  sent  from  Southampton  : 
"  If  it's  a  boy,  eall  him  John  (after  the  Evangelist) ;  and  if 
it's  a  girl,  call  her  Glory."  At  the  end  of  the  first  year  she 
wrote :  "  I  have  shortened  our  darling,  and  you  never  saw 
anything  so  lovely !  Oh,  the  sweetness  of  her  little  bare 
arms,  and  her  neck,  and  her  little  round  shoulders !  You 
know  she's  red — I've  really  got  a  red  one — a  curly  red  one  t 
Such  big  beaming  eyes,  too !  And  then  her  mouth,  and  her 
chin,  and  her  tiny  red  toes  !  I  don't  know  how  you  can  live 
without  seeing  her  !  "  Near  the  end  of  the  fourth  year  he 
sent  his  last  answer  :  "  Dear  Wife — This  separation  is  bitter ; 
but  God  has  willed  it,  and  we  must  not  forget  that  the 
probabilities  are  that  we  may  pass  our  lives  apart."  The 
next  letter  was  from  the  English  consul  on  the  Gaboon 
River,  announcing  the  death  of  the  devoted  missionary. 

Parson  Quayle's  household  consisted  only  of  himseK  and 
two  maiden  daughters,  but  that  was  too  much  for  the  lively 
young  Frenchwoman.  While  her  husband  lived,  she  suf- 
focated under  the  old-maid  regime ;  and  when  he  was  gone 
she  made  no  more  fight  with  destiny,  but  took  some  simple 
ailment,  and  died  suddenly. 

A  bare  hillside  frowned  down  on  the  place  where  Glory 
was  born ;  but  the  sun  rose  over  it,  and  a  beautiful  river 
hugged  its  sides.  A  quarter  of  a  mile  down  the  river  there 
was  a  harbour,  and  beyond  the  harbour  a  bay,  with  the  ruins 
of  an  old  castle  standing  out  on  an  islet  rock,  and  then  the 
broad  sweep  of  the  Irish  Sea — the  last  in  those  latitudes  to 
"  parley  with  the  setting  sun."  The  vicarage  was  called 
Glenfaba,  and  it  was  half  a  mile  outside  the  fishing  town  of 
Peel. 

Glory  was  a  little  red-headed  witch  from  the  fu-st,  with 


8  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

an  air  of  general  uncanniness  in  everj'thing-  she  did  and 
said.  Until  after  she  was  six  there  was  no  believing-  a  word 
she  uttered.  Her  conversation  was  bravely  indifferent  to 
considerations  of  truth  or  falsehood,  fear  or  favour,  reward 
or  punishment.  The  parson  used  to  say,  "  I'm  really  afraid 
the  child  has  no  moral  conscience — she  doesn't  seem  to  know 
right  from  wrong."  This  troubled  his  religion,  but  it  tickled 
his  humour,  and  it  did  not  disturl)  his  love.  "  She's  a  perfect 
pagan — God  bless  her  innocent  heart ! '' 

She  had  more  than  a  child's  genius  for  make-believe.  In 
her  hunger  for  child  company,  before  the  days  when  she 
found  it  for  herself,  she  made  believe  that  various  vemons 
of  herself  lived  all  over  the  place,  and  she  would  call  them 
out  to  play.  There  was  Glory  in  the  river,  under  the  pool 
where  the  perches  swam,  and  Glory  down  the  well,  and 
Glory  ui?  in  the  hills,  and  they  answered  when  she  spoke  to 
them.  All  her  dolls  were  kings  and  queens,  and  she  had  a 
gift  for  making  up  in  strange  and  grand  disguises.  It  was 
almost  as  if  her  actress  grandmother  had  bestowed  on  her 
from  her  birth  the  right  to  life  and  luxury  and  love. 

She  was  a  born  mimic,  and  could  hit  off  to  a  hair  an 
eccentricity  or  an  affectation.  The  frown  of  Aunt  Ainia,  who 
was  severe,  the  smile  of  Aunt  Rachel,  who  was  sentimental, 
and  the  yawn  of  Cornelius  Kewley,  the  clerk,  who  was 
always  sleepy,  lived  again  in  the  roguish,  rippling  face. 
She  remembered  some  of  her  mother's  French  songs,  and 
seeing  a  street-singer  one  day,  she  established  herself  in  the 
market-place  in  that  chai*acter,  with  grown  people  on  their 
knees  around  her,  ready  to  fall  on  her  and  kiss  her  and  call 
her  Phonodoree,  the  fairy.  But  she  did  not  forget  to  go 
round  for  the  ha'pennies  either. 

At  ten  she  was  a  tomboy,  and  marched  througli  the  town 
at  the  head  of  an  army  of  boys,  playing  on  a  comb  between 
her  teeth  and  flying  the  vicar's  handkerchief  at  the  end  of  liis 
walking-stick.  In  these  days  she  climbed  trees  and  robbed 
orchards  (generally  her  own)  and  imitated  boys'  voices,  and 
thought  it  tyranny  that  she  might  not  wear  trousers.  But 
she  wore  a  sailor's  blue  stocking-cap,  and  it  brightened  ex- 
istence when,  for  economy's  sake  and  for  tlie  sake  of  general 
tidiness,  she  was  allowed  to  wear  a  white  woollen  jei-sey. 


THE   OUTER  WORLD.  9 

Then  somebody  who  had  a  dingliy  that  he  did  not  want 
asked  her  if  she  would  like  to  have  a  boat.  Would  she  like 
to  have  paradise,  or  pastry  cakes,  or  anything-  that  was 
heavenly !  After  that  she  wore  a  sailor's  jacket  and  a 
sou'wester  when  she  was  on  the  sea,  and  tumbled  about  the 
water  like  a  duck. 

At  twelve  she  fell  in  love — with  love.  It  was  a  vague 
passion  interwoven  with  dreams  of  grandeur.  The  parson 
being  too  poor  to  send  her  to  the  girls'  college  at  Douglas, 
and  his  daughters  being  too  proud  to  send  her  to  the  dame's 
school  at  Peel,  she  was  taught  at  home  by  Aunt  Eachel,  who 
read  the  poetry  of  Thomas  Moore,  knew  the  birthdays  of  all 
the  royal  family,  and  was  otherwise  meekly  romantic.  From 
this  source  she  gathered  much  curious  sentiment  relating  to 
some  visionary  world  where  young  girls  wei*e  held  aloft  in 
the  sunshine  of  luxuiy  and  love  and  happiness.  One  day  she 
was  lying  on  her  back  on  the  heather  of  the  Peel  hill,  with 
her  head  on  her  arms,  thinking  of  a  story  that  Aunt  Rachel 
had  told  her.  It  was  of  a  mermaid  who  had  only  to  slip  up 
out  of  the  sea  and  say  to  any  man,  "  Come,"  and  he  came — he 
left  everj'thing  and  followed  her.  Suddenly  the  cold  nose 
of  a  pointer  rubbed  ag-ainst  her  forehead,  a  strong  voice 
cried,  "  Down,  sir  !  "  and  a  young  man  of  two  and  twenty,  in 
leggings  and  a  shooting- jacket,  strode  between  her  and  the 
clifPs.  She  knew  him  by  sight.  He  was  John  Storm,  the 
son  of  Lord  Storm,  who  had  lately  come  to  live  in  the  man- 
sion house  at  Knockaloe,  a  mile  up  the  hill  from  Glenfaba. 

For  three  weeks  thereafter  she  talked  of  nobody  else,  and 
even  began  to  comb  her  hair.  She  watched  him  in  church, 
and  told  Aunt  Eachel  she  was  sure  he  could  see  quite  well 
in  the  dark,  for  his  big  eyes  seemed  to  have  the  light  inside 
of  them.  After  that  she  became  ashamed,  and  if  anybody 
happened  to  mention  his  name  in  her  hearing  she  flushed 
up  to  the  forehead  and  fled  out  of  the  room.  He  never  once 
looked  at  her,  and  after  a  while  he  went  away  to  Canada. 
She  set  the  clock  on  the  back  landing  to  Canadian  time,  so 
that  she  might  always  know  what  he  was  doing  abroad,  and 
then  straightway  forgot  all  about  him.  Her  moods  followed 
each  other  rapidly,  and  were  all  of  them  overpowering  and 
all  sincere,  but  it  was  not  until  a  year  afterward  that  she 
2 


10  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

fell  in  love,  in  the  church  vestry,  with  the  pretty  hoy  who 
stood  opposite  to  her  in  the  catechism  class. 

He  was  an  English  boy  of  her  own  age,  and  he  was  only 
staying  in  the  island  for  his  holidays.  The  second  time  she 
saw  him  it  was  in  the  grounds  at  Grienfaba,  while  his  mother 
was  returning  a  call  indoors.  She  gave  him  a  little  tap  on 
the  arm  and  he  had  to  run  after  her — down  a  bank  and  up  a 
tree,  where  she  laughed  and  said,  "  Isn't  it  nice  ? "  and  he 
could  see  nothing  but  her  big  white  teeth. 

His  name  was  Francis  Horatio  Nelson  Drake,  and  he  was 
full  of  great  accounts  of  the  goings-on  in  the  outer  world, 
where  his  school  was,  and  where  lived  the  only  ''  men " 
worth  talking  about.  Of  cour.se  he  spoke  of  all  this  famil- 
iar] 3'  and  with  a  convincing  reality  which  wrapped  Glory 
in  the  plumage  of  dreams.  He  was  a  wonderful  being,  alto- 
gether, and  in  due  time  (about  three  days)  she  proposed  to 
him.  True,  he  did  not  jump  at  her  offer  with  quite  j^roper 
alacrity,  but  when  she  mentioned  that  it  didn't  matter  to 
her  in  the  least  whether  he  wanted  her  or  not,  and  that 
plenty  would  be  glad  of  the  chance,  he  saw  things  differ- 
ently, and  they  agreed  to  elope.  There  was  no  particular 
reason  for  this  drastic  measure,  but  as  Glory  had  a  boat,  it 
seemed  the  right  thing  to  do. 

She  dressed  herself  in  all  her  Confirmation  finery,  and 
stole  out  to  meet  him  under  the  bridge  where  her  boat  lay 
moored.  He  kept  her  half  an  hour  waiting,  having  si.sters 
and  other  disadvantages,  but  "once  aboard  her  lugger,"  he 
was  safe.  She  was  breathless,  and  he  was  anxious,  and 
neither  thought  it  necessary  to  waste  any  time  in  kissing. 

They  slipped  down  the  harbour  and  out  into  the  bay,  and 
then  ran  up  the  sail  and  stood  off  for  Scotland.  Being  more 
easy  in  mind  when  this  was  done,  they  had  time  to  talk  of 
the  future.  Francis  Horatio  was  for  work — he  was  going 
to  make  a  name  for  himself.  Glory  did  not  see  it  quite  in 
that  light.  A  name,  yes,  and  lots  of  triumphal  pi'ocessions, 
but  she  was  for  travel — there  were  such  lots  of  things  people 
could  see  if  they  didn't  waste  so  much  time  working. 

"  What  a  girl  you  are  !  "  he  said  derisively ;  whereupon 
she  bit  her  lip,  for  she  didn't  quite  like  it.  But  they  were 
nearly  half  an  hour  out  before  he  spoiled  himself  utterly. 


THE  OUTER  WORLD.  H 

He  had  brought  his  dog-,  a  she-terrier,  and  he  began  to  call 
her  by  her  kennel  name  and  to  say  what  a  fine  little  thing 
she  was,  and  what  a  deal  of  money  they  Avould  make  by  her 
pups.  That  was  too  much  for  Glory.  She  couldn't  think 
of  eloping  with  a  person  who  used  such  low  expressions. 

"  What  a  girl  you  are  !  "  he  said  again  ;  but  she  did  not 
mind  it  in  the  least.  With  a  sweep  of  her  bare  arm  she  had 
put  the  tiller  hard  aport,  intending  to  tack  back  to  Peel,  but 
the  wind  had  freshened  and  the  sea  was  rising,  and  by  the 
swift  leap  of  the  boat  the  boom  was  snapped,  and  the  helpless 
sail  came  flapping  down  upon  the  mast.  Then  they  tuml)led 
into  the  trough,  and  Glory  had  not  strength  to  pull  them 
out  of  it,  and  the  boy  was  of  no  more  use  than  a  tripper. 
She  was  in  her  wliite  muslin  dress,  and  he  was  nursing  his 
dog,  and  the  night  was  closing  down  on  them,  and  they 
were  wobbling  about  under  a  pole  and  a  tattered  rag.  But 
all  at  once  a  great  black  yacht  came  heaving  up  in  the 
darkness,  and  a  grown-up  voice  cried,  "  Trust  yourself  to 
me,  dear." 

It  was  John  Storm.  He  had  already  awakened  the 
young  girl  in  her,  and  thereafter  he  awakened  the  young 
woman  as  well.  She  clung  to  him  like  a  child  that  night, 
and  during  the  four  years  following  she  seemed  always  to 
be  doing  the  same.  He  was  her  big  brothei',  her  master,  her 
lord,  her  sovereign.  She  placed  him  on  a  dizzy  height  above 
her,  amid  a  halo  of  goodness  and  grandeur.  If  he  smiled 
on  her  she  flushed,  and  if  he  frowned  she  fretted  and  was 
afraid.  Thinking  to  please  him,  she  tried  to  dress  herself  up 
in  all  the  colours  of  the  I'ainbow,  but  he  reproved  her  and 
bade  her  return  to  her  jersey.  She  struggled  to  comb  out 
her  red  curls  until  he  told  her  that  the  highest  ladies  in  the 
laud  would  give  both  ears  for  them,  and  then  she  fondled 
them  in  her  fingers  and  admired  them  in  a  glass. 

He  was  a  serious  person,  but  she  could  make  him  laugh 
until  he  screamed.  Excei:)ting  Byron  and  "  Sir  CharleSi 
Grandison,"  out  of  the  vicar's  library,  the  only  literature** 
she  knew  was  the  Bible,  the  Catechism,  and  the  Church 
Service,  and  slie  used  these  in  common  talk  with  appalling 
freedom  and  audacity.  The  favourite  butt  of  her  mimicry 
was  the  parish  clerk  saying  responses  when  he  was  sleepy. 


12  THE   CHRISTIAN. 

The  parson  :  "  O  Lord,  open  tliou  our  lips  "  (no  re- 
sponse).    "  Where  are  you,  Neikis  ?  " 

The  clerk  (awakening  suddenly  in  the  desk  below) : 
"Here  I  am,  your  reverence — and  our  niovith  shall  show 
forth  thy  praise." 

When  John  Storm  did  laugh  he  laughed  beyond  all  con- 
trol, ai^d  then  Glory  was  entirely  happy.  But  he  went 
away  again,  his  father  having  sent  him  to  Australia,  and  all 
the  light  of  her  world  went  out. 

It  was  of  no  use  bothering  with  the  clock  on  the  back 
landing,  because  things  were  different  by  this  time.  She 
was  sixteen,  and  the  only  tree  she  climbed  now  was  the  tree 
of  the  knowledge  of  good  and  evil,  and  that  tore  her  terri- 
bly. John  Storm  was  the  son  of  a  lord,  and  he  would  be 
Lord  Something  himself  some  day.  Glory  Quayle  was  an 
orphan,  and  her  grandfather  was  a  poor  country  clergyman. 
Their  poverty  was  sweet,  but  there  was  gall  in  it,  neverthe- 
less. The  little  forced  economies  in  dress,  the  frocks  that 
had  to  be  turned,  the  bonnets  that  were  beauties  when  they 
were  bought,  but  had  to  be  worn  until  the  changes  of  fash- 
ion made  them  frights,  and  then  the  niysterious  parcels  of 
left-oflP  clothing  from  goodness  knows  where — how  the  in- 
dependence of  the  girl's  spirit  rebelled  against  such  humili- 
ations ! 

Tlie  blood  of  her  mother  was  beginning  to  boil  over,  and 
the  old-maid  regime,  which  had  crushed  the  life  out  of  the 
Frenchwoman,  was  suffocating  the  Manx  girl  with  its  for- 
malism. She  was  always  forgetting  the  meal  times  regu- 
lated by  the  sun,  and  she  could  sleep  at  any  time  and  keep 
awake  until  any  hour.  It  tired  her  to  sit  demurely  like  a 
young  lady,  and  she  had  a  trick  of  lying  down  on  the  floor. 
She  often  laughed  in  order  not  to  cry,  but  she  would  not 
even  smile  at  a  great  lady's  silly  stoi*y,  and  she  did  not  care 
a  jot  about  the  birthdays  of  the  royal  family.  The  old 
aunts  loved  her  body  and  soul,  but  they  often  said,  "What- 
ever is  going  to  happen  to  the  girl  when  the  grandfather  is 
gone  ? " 

And  the  grandfather — good  man — would  have  laid  down 
his  life  to  save  her  a  pain  in  her  toe,  but  he  had  not  a  notion 
of  the  stutf  she  was  made  of.     His  hobby  was  the  study  of 


THE   OUTER  WORLD.  13 

the  runic  crosses  with  which  the  Isle  of  Man  abounds,  and 
when  she  helped  him  with  his  rubbings  and  his  casts  he 
was  as  merry  as  an  old  sand-boy.  Though  they  occupied  • 
the  same  house,  and  her  bedroom  that,  faced  the  harbour 
was  next  to  his  little  musty  study  that  looked  over  the 
scullery  slates,  he  lived  always  in  the  tenth  century  and  she 
lived  somewhere  in  the  twentieth. 

The  imprisoned  linnet  was  beating  at  the  bars  of  its  cage. 
Before  she  was  aware  of  it  she  wanted  to  escape  from  the 
sleepy  old  scene,  and  had  begun  to  be  consumed  with  long- 
ing for  the  great  world  outside.  On  summer  evenings  she 
would  go  up  Peel  Hill  and  lie  on  the  heather,  where  she 
had  first  seen  John  Storm,  and  watch  the  ships  weighing 
anchor  in  the  bay  beyond  the  old  dead  castle  walls,  aiid 
wish  she  were  going  out  with  them — out  to  the  sea  and  the 
great  cities  north  and  south.  But  existence  closed  in  evei'- 
narrowing  cii'cles  round  her,  and  she  could  see  no  way  out. 
Two  years  passed,  and  at  eighteen  she  was  fretting  that  half 
her  life  had  wasted  away.  She  watched  the  sun  until  it 
sank  into  the  sea,  and  then  she  turned  back  to  Glenfaba  and 
the  darkened  regioii  of  the  sky. 

It  was  all  the  fault  of  their  poverty,  and  their  poverty 
was  the  fault  of  the  Church.  She  began  to  hate  the  Church  ; 
it  had  made  her  an  orphan  ;  and  when  she  thought  of  reli- 
gion as  a  profession  it  seemed  a  selfish  thing  anyway.  If  a 
man  was  really  bent  on  so  lofty  an  aim  (as  her  own  father 
had  been)  he  could  not  think  of  himself  ;  he  had  to  give  up 
life  and  love  and  the  world,  and  then  these  always  took  ad- 
vantage of  him.  But  people  had  to  live  in  the  world  for  all 
that,  and  what  was  the  good  of  burying  yourself  before  you 
were  dead  ? 

Somehow  her  undefined  wishes  took  shape  in  visions  of 
John  Storm,  and  one  day  she  heard  he  was  home  again. 
She  went  out  on  the  hill  that  evening  and,  beiug  seen  only 
by  the  gulls,  she  laughed  and  cried  and  ran.  It  was  just 
like  poetry,  for  there  he  was  himself  lying  on  the  edge  o* 
the  clifl:"  near  the  very  spot  where  she  had  been  used  to  lie. 
On  seeing  him  she  went  more  slowly,  and  began  to  poke 
about  in  the  heather  as  if  she  had  seen  nothing.  He  came 
■  ■>  to  her  with  both  hands  i>uts' retched,  and  then  suddenly 


14  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

she  remembered  that  she  was  wearing  her  old  jersey,  and 
slie  flushed  up  to  the  eyes  and  nearly  choked  with  shame. 
She  got  better  by-and-bye  and  talked  away  like  a  mill-wheel, 
and  then  fearing  he  might  think  it  was  from  something 
quite  different,  she  began  to  pull  the  heather  and  to  tell  him 
why  she  had  been  blushing.  He  did  not  laugh  at  all. 
With  a  strange  smile  he  said  something  in  his  deep  voice 
that  made  her  blood  run  cold. 

"But  I'm  to  be  a  poor  man  myself  in  future.  Glory, 
I've  quarrelled  with  my  father.     I'm  going  into  the  Church." 

It  was  a  frightful  blow  to  her,  and  the  sun  went  down 
like  a  shot.  But  it  burst  open  the  bars  of  her  cage  for  all 
that.  After  John  Storm  had  found  a  curacj'  in  London  and 
taken  Orders,  he  told  them  at  Glenfaba  that  among  his  hon- 
orary offices  was  to  be  that  of  chaplain  to  a  gi-eat  West  End 
hospital.  This  suggested  to  Glory  the  channel  of  escape. 
She  would  go  out  as  a  hospital  nurse.  It  was  easier  said 
than  done,  for  hospital  nursing  was  fashionable,  and  she 
was  three  years  too  young.  With  great  labour  she  secured 
her  appointment  as  probationer,  and  with  greater  labour 
still  overcame  the  fear  and  affection  of  her  grandfather. 
But  the  old  parson  was  finally  appeased  when  he  heard  that 
Glory's  hospital  was  the  same  that  John  Storm  was  to  be 
chaplain  of,  and  that  they  might  go  up  to  London  together. 


III. 

"Dear  Grandfather  of  me,  and  everybody  at 
Glenfaba  :  Here  I  am  at  last,  dears,  at  the  end  of  my  Pil- 
grim's Progress,  and  the  evening  and  the  morning  are  tlie 
first  day.  It  is  now  eleven  o'clock  at  nig] it,  and  I  am  about 
to  put  myself  to  bed  in  my  own  little  room  at  the  hospital 
of  Martlia's  Vineyai-d,  Hyde  Park,  London.  EngUmd. 

"  The  captain  was  quite  right ;  the  morning  was  as  fresh 
«s  his  flattery,  and  before  we  got  far  beyond  the  Head  most 
of  the  passengers  were  spread  out  below  like  the  tliree  legs 
of  Man.  Being  an  old  sea-doggie  myself,  I  didn't  give  it  the 
chance  to  make  me  sick,  bul  u(  !;t  downstairs  and  lay  quiet 
in  my  berth  and  deliberated  gre  tt  things.     I  didn't  go  up 


THE   OUTER  WORLD.  15 

again  until  we  got  into  the  Mersey,  and  tlien  the  passengers 
were  on  deck,  looking  like  sour  buttermilk  spilt  out  of  the 
churn. 

"  What  a  glorious  sight !  The  sliiiJS,  the  docks,  the 
towers,  the  town !  I  couldn't  breathe  for  excitement  until 
we  got  up  to  the  landing-stage.  Mr.  Storm  put  me  into  a 
cab,  and  for  the  sake  of  experience  I  insisted  on  paying  my 
own  way.  Of  course  he  tried  to  trick  me,  but  a  woman's  a 
woman  for  a'  that.  As  we  drove  up  to  Lime  Street  station 
there  befell — a  porter.  He  carried  my  big  trunk  on  his 
head  (like  a  mushroom),  and  when  I  bought  my  ticket  he 
took  me  to  the  train  while  Mr.  Storm  went  for  a  newspajjer. 
Being  such  a  stranger,  he  was  very  kind,  so  I  flung  the  re- 
sponsibility on  Providence  and  gave  him  sixpence. 

"  There  were  two  old  ladies  in  the  carriage  beside  our- 
selves, and  the  train  we  travelled  by  was  an  expi'ess.  It  was 
perfectly  delightful,  and  for  all  the  world  like  plunging 
into  a  stiff  sou'wester  off  the  rocks  at  Contrary.  But  the 
first  part  of  the  journey  was  terrible.  That  tunnel  nearly 
made  me  shriek.  It  was  a  misty  day  too  at  Liverpool,  and 
all  the  way  to  Edge  Hill  they  let  off  signals  with  a  noise 
like  battering-rams.  My  nerves  were  on  the  rack ;  so  tak- 
ing advantage  of  the  darkness  of  the  carriage,  I  began  to 
sing.  That  calmed  me,  but  it  nearly  drove  the  old  ladies 
out  of  their  wits.  They  screamed  if  I  didn't ;  and  just  as  I 
was  summoning  the  Almighty  to  attend  to  me  a  little  in 
the  middle  of  that  inferno,  out  we  came  as  innocent  as  a 
baby.  There  was  another  of  these  places  just  before  getting 
into  London.  I  suppose  they  are  purgatories  through  which 
you  have  to  pass  to  get  to  these  wonderful  cities.  Only  if  I 
had  been  consulted  in  the  making  of  the  Litany  ('  from  sud- 
den death,  good  Lord,  deliver  us ')  I  should  have  made  an 
exception  for  people  in  tunnels. 

"  You  never  knew  what  an  absolute  ninny  Gloiy  is  !  I 
was  burning  with  such  impatience  to  see  London  that  when 
we  came  near  it  I  couldn't  see  anything  for  water  under 
the  brain.  Approacliing  a  great  and  mighty  city  for  the 
first  time  must  be  like  going  into  the  presence  of  majesty. 
Only  Heaven  save  me  from  such  palpitation  the  day  I  be- 
come songstress  to  the^  Queen  ! 


16  THE   CHEISTIAN. 

"  Mercy  !  what  a  roar  and  boom — a  deep  murmur  as  of 
ten  hundred  million  million  moths  humming  away  on  a 
still  evening  in  autumn  !  On  a  nearer  view  it  is  more  like 
a  Tower-of -Babel  concern,  witli  its  click  and  clatter.  The 
explosion  of  voices,  the  confused  clamour,  the  dreadful  dis- 
order— cars,  wagons,  omnibuses — it  makes  you  feel  religious 
and  rather  cold  down  the  back.  What  a  needle  in  a  hay- 
stack a  poor  girl  must  be  here  if  there  is  nobody  above 
to  keep  track  of  her ! 

"Tell  Aunt  Eachel  thej'  are  wearing  another  kind  of 
bonnet  in  London — more  pokey  in  front — and  say  if  I  see 
the  Queen  111  be  sure  to  tell  her  all  about  it. 

"  We  didn't  get  to  the  hospital  until  nine,  so  I've  not 
seen  much  of  it  yet.  The  housekeeper  gave  me  tea  and  told 
me  I  might  go  over  the  house,  as  I  wouldn't  be  wanted  to 
begin  duty  before  morning.  So  for  an  hour  I  went  from 
ward  to  ward  like  a  female  Wandei'ing  Jew.  Such  silence ! 
I'm  afraid  this  hospital  nursing  is  going  to  be  a  lockjaw 
business.  And  now  I'm  going  to  bed — well,  not  homesick. 
you  know,  but  just  '  longing  a  lil  bit  for  all.'  To-morrow 
morning  I'll  waken  up  to  new  sounds  and  sights,  and  when 
I  draw  my  blind  I'll  see  the  streets  where  the  cars  are  for- 
ever running  and  rattling.  Then  I'll  think  of  Glenfaba 
and  the  birds  singing  and  rejoicing. 

"  Dispense  my  love  throughout  the  island.  Say  that  I 
love  everybody  just  the  same  now  I'm  a  London  lady  as 
when  I  was  a  mere  provincial  girl,  and  that  when  I'm  a 
wonderful  woman,  and  have  brought  the  eyes  of  England 
upon  me,  I'll  come  back  and  make  amends.  I  can  hear 
what  grandfather  is  saying  :  '  Gougli  bless  me,  what  a  girl, 
though ! '  Glory. 

"  P.  S. — I've  not  said  much  about  Mr.  Storm.  He  left  me 
at  the  door  of  the  hospital  and  went  on  to  the  house  of  liis 
vicar,  for  that  is  where  he  is  to  lodge,  you  know.  On  the 
way  up  I  expended  much  beautiful  poetry  upon  him  on  the 
subject  of  love.  The  old  girlies  having  dozed  off,  I  chanced 
to  ask  liim  if  he  liked  to  talk  of  it,  but  he  said  no,  it  was  a 
profanation.  Love  was  too  sacred,  it  was  a  kind  of  religion. 
Sometimes  it  came  unawares,  sometimes  it  smouldered  like 
fire  under  ashes,  sometimes  it  was  a  good  angel,  sometimes 


THE  OUTER  WORLD.  17 

a  devil,  making  you  do  things  and  say  things,  and  laying 
your  life  waste  like  winter.  But  1  told  hiui  it  was  just 
charming,  and  as  for  religion,  there  was  nothing  under 
heaven  like  the  devotion  of  a  handsome  and  clever  man  to 
a  handsome  and  clever  woman,  when  he  gave  up  all  the 
world  for  her,  and  his  body  and  his  soul  and  everything 
that  was  his.  I  think  he  saw  there  was  something  in  that, 
for  though  he  said  nothing,  there  came  a  wonderful  light 
into  his  splendid  eyes,  and  I  thought  if  he  wasn't  going  to 
be  a  clergyman — but  no  matter.    So  long,  dear  ! " 


IV. 

John  Storm  was  the  son  of  Lord  Storm  (a  peer  in  his 
own  right),  and  nephew  of  the  Prime  Minister  of  England, 
the  Earl  of  Erin.  Two  years  before  John's  birth  the  broth- 
ers had  quarrelled  about  a  woman.  It  was  John's  mother. 
She  had  engaged  herself  to  the  younger  brother,  and 
afterward  fallen  in  love  with  the  elder  one.  The  voice  of 
conscience  told  her  that  it  was  her  duty  to  carry  out  her 
engagement,  and  she  did  so.  Then  the  voice  of  conscience 
took  sides  with  the  laws  of  life  and  told  the  lovers  that  they 
must  renounce  each  other,  and  they  both  did  that  as  well. 
Bvit  the  poor  girl  found  it  easier  to  renounce  life  than  love, 
and  after  flying  to  religion  as  an  escape  from  the  conflict 
between  conjugal  duty  and  elemental  passion  she  gave  birth 
to  her  child  and  died.  She  was  the  daughter  of  a  rich 
banker,  who  had  come  from  the  soil,  and  she  had  been 
brought  up  to  consider  marriage  distinct  from  love.  Ex- 
changing wealth  for  title,  she  found  death  in  the  deal. 

Her  husband  had  never  stood  in  any  natural  affinity  to 
her.  On  his  part,  their  mai'riage  had  been  a  loveless  and 
selfish  union,  based  on  the  desire  for  an  heir  that  he  might 
found  a  family  and  cancel  the  unfair  position  of  a  younger 
son.  But  the  sin  he  committed  against  the  fundamental 
law,  that  marriage  shall  be  founded  only  in  love,  brought 
its  swift  revenge. 

On  hearing  that  the  wife  was  dead,  the  elder  brother 
came  to  attend  the  funeral.    The  night  before  that  event  the 


18  THE   CHRISTIAN. 

husband  felt  unhappy  about  the  part  he  had  played.  He 
had  given  no  occasion  for  scandal,  but  he  had  never  dis- 
guised, even  from  the  mother  of  his  son.  the  motives  of  his 
niaxTiage.  The  poor  girl  was  gone  ;  he  had  only  trained  him- 
self for  the  pursuit  of  her  dowry,  and  the  voice  of  love  had 
been  silent.  Troubled  by  such  thoughts,  he  walked  about 
his  room  all  night  long,  and  somewhere  in  the  firet  dead 
gray  of  dawn  he  went  down  to  the  death  chamber  that  he 
might  look  upon  her  face  again.  Opening  the  door,  he 
heard  the  sound  of  half-stifled  sobs.  Some  one  was  leaning 
over  the  white  face  and  weeping  like  a  man  with  a  broken 
heart.     It  was  his  brother. 

From  that  time  forward  Lord  Storm  considei-ed  himself 
the  injured  person.  He  had  never  cared  for  his  brother, 
and  now  he  designed  to  wipe  him  out.  His  son  would  do  it. 
He  was  the  heir  to  the  earldom,  for  the  earl  had  never  mar- 
ried. But  a  iDosthumous  revenge  was  too  trivial.  The  earl 
had  gone  into  politics  and  was  making  a  name.  Lord 
Storm  had  missed  his  own  opportunities,  though  he  had  got 
himself  called  to  the  L'pper  House,  but  his  son  should  be 
brought  up  to  eclipse  everything. 

To  this  end  the  father  devoted  his  life  to  the  boy's  train- 
ing. All  conventional  education  was  wrong  in  principle. 
Schools  and  colleges  and  the  study  of  the  classics  were  driv- 
elling folly,  with  next  to  nothing  to  do  with  life.  Travel 
was  the  gi'eat  teacher.  "  You  shall  travel  as  far  as  tliQ^sun," 
he  said.  So  the  boy  was  taken  through  Europe  and  Asia 
and  learned  .something  of  many  languages.  He  became  his 
father's  daily  companion,  and  nowhere  the  father  went  was 
it  thought  wrong  for  the  boy  to  go  also.  Conventional 
morality  was  considered  mawkish.  The  chief  aim  of  home 
training  was  to  bring  children  up  in  total  ignorance,  if  pos- 
sible, of  the  most  important  facts  and  functions  of  life.  But 
it  was  not  po.ssible,  and  hence  suppression,  dissimulation, 
lying,  and,  under  the  ban  of  secret  sin,  one  half  the  world's 
woe.  So  the  boy  was  taken  to  the  temples  of  Greece  and 
India,  and  even  to  Western  casinos  and  dancing  gardens. 
Before  he  was  twenty  he  had  seen  something  of  nearly 
everything  the  world  has  in  it. 

When  tlie  time  came  to  think  of  his  career  Enjrhuid 


THE  OUTER  WORLD.  19 

was  in  straits  about  her  colonial  empire.  The  vast  lands 
over  sea  wanted  to  take  care  of  themselves.  It  was  the 
moment  of  the  "British  North  America  Act,"  and  that  gave 
the  father  his  cue  for  action.  While  his  brothei*  the  earl 
was  fiddling  the  country  to  the  tune  of  limited  self-govern- 
ment for  Crown  colonies,  the  father  of  John  Storm 
conceived  the  daring  idea  of  breaking  up  the  entire  em- 
pire, including  the  United  Kingdom,  into  self-governing 
states.  They  were  to  b^  the  "United  States  of  Great 
Britain." 

This  was  to  be  John  Storm's  policy,  and  to  work  it  out 
Lord  Storm  set  up  a  house  in  the  Isle  of  Man  where  he 
might  always  look  upon  his  plan  in  miniature.  There  he 
established  a  bureau  for  the  gathering  of  the  data  that  his 
son  would  need  to  use  hereafter.  Newspapers  came  to  him 
in  his  lonely  retreat  from  all  quarters  of  the  globe,  and  he 
cut  out  everything  relating  to  his  subject.  His  library 
was  a  dusty  room  lined  all  around  with  brown-paper  pock- 
ets, which  were  labelled  with  the  names  of  colonies  and 
counties. 

"  It  will  take  us  two  generations  to  do  it,  my  boy,  but 
we'll  alter  the  history  of  England." 

At  fifty  he  was  iron-gray,  a)id  had  a  head  like  a  big 
owl. 

Meanwhile  the  object  of  these  grand  preparations,  the 
offspring  of  that  loveless  union,  had  a  personality  all  his 
own.  It  seemed  as  if  he  had  been  built  for  a  big  man  every 
Avay,  and  Nature  had  been  arrested  in  the  making  of  him. 
When  people  looked  at  his  head  they  felt  he  ought  to  have 
been  a  giant,  but  he  was  far  from  rivalling  the  children  of 
Anak.  When  they  listened  to  his  conversation  they 
thought  he  might  turn  out  to  be  a  creature  of  genius,  but 
perhaps  he  was  only  a  man  of  powerful  moods.  The  best 
strength  of  body  and  mind  seemed  to  have  gone  into  his 
heart.  It  may  be  that  the  sorrowful  unrest  of  his  mother 
and  her  smothered  passion  had  left  their  red  stream  in 
John  Storm's  soul. 

When  he  was  a  boy  he  would  cry  at  a  beautiful  view  in 
'7ature,  at  a  tale  of  heroism,  or  at  any  sentimental  ditty 
ang  excruciatingly  in  the  streets.     Seeing  a  bird's  nest  that 


20  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

had  been  robbed  of  its  eggs  he  burst  into  teare ;  but  when  he 
came  upon  the  bleeding,  broken  shells  in  the  path,  the  tears 
turned  to  fierce  wrath  and  mad  rage,  and  he  snatched  up  a 
gun  out  of  his  father's  room  and  went  out  to  take  the  life  of 
the  offender. 

On  coming  to  the  Isle  of  Man  he  noticed  as  often  as  he 
went  to  church  that  a  little  curly  red-headed  girl  kept  star- 
ing at  him  from  the  vicar's  pew.  He  was  a  man  of  two-and- 
twenty,  but  the  child's  eyes  tormented  him.  At  any  time  of 
day  or  night  he  could  call  up  a  vision  of  their  gleaming 
brightness.  Then  his  father  sent  him  to  Canada  to  watch 
the  establishment  of  the  Dominion,  and  when  he  came  back 
he  brought  a  Canadian  canoe  and  an  American  yacht,  and 
certain  democratic  opinions. 

The  first  time  he  sailed  the  yacht  in  Manx  waters  he 
sighted  a  disabled  boat  and  rescued  two  children.  One  of 
them  was  the  girl  of  the  vicar's  pew,  grown  taller  and  more 
winsome.  She  nestled  up  to  him  when  he  lifted  her  into 
the  yacht,  and,  without  knowing  why,  he  kei)t  his  arms 
about  her. 

After  that  he  called  his  yacht  the  Gloria,  in  imitation  of 
her  name,  and  sometimes  took  the  girl  out  on  the  sea.  Not- 
withstanding the  difference  of  the  years  between  them,  they 
had  their  happy  boy  and  girl  days  together.  In  her  white 
jersey  and  stocking-cap  she  looked  every  inch  a  sailor. 
When  the  wind  freshened  and  the  boat  plunged  she  stood 
to  the  tiller  like  a  man,  and  he  thought  her  tbe  sweetest 
sight  ever  seen  in  a  cockpit.  And  when  the  wind  saddened 
and  the  boom  came  aboard  she  was  the  cheeriest  companion 
in  a  calm.  She  sang,  and  so  did  he,  and  their  voices  went 
well  together.  Her  favourite  song  w^as  "  Come,  Lasses  and 
Lads  "  ;  his  was  "  John  Peel  "  ;  and  they  would  sing  them  oft" 
and  on  for  an  hour  at  a  spell.  Thus  on  a  sumnier  evening, 
when  the  bay  was  lying  like  a  tired  monster  asleep,  and 
every  plash  of  an  oar  was  echoing  on  the  hills,  the  people  on 
the  land  would  hear  them  coming  around  the  castle  rock 
with  their — 

"  D'ye  ken  John  Peel,  ^vith  his  coat  so  gay? 
D'ye  ken  John  Peel  at  the  break  of  day  ? 
D'ye  ken  John  P-e-e-1  .  .  ." 


THE   OUTER  WORLD.  21 

For  two  years  he  amused  himself  with  the  child,  and 
then  realized  that  she  was  a  child  no  longer.  The  pity  of 
the  girl's  position  took  hold  of  him.  This  sunny  soul  with 
her  sportfulness,  her  grace  of  many  gifts,  with  her  eyes  that 
flashed  and  gleamed  like  lightning,  with  her  voice  that  was 
like  the  warble  of  a  bird,  this  golden-headed  gipsy,  this 
witch,  this  fairy — what  was  the  life  that  lay  before  her  ? 
Pity  gave  place  to  a  different  feeling,  and  then  he  was  aware 
of  a  pain  in  the  breast  when  he  thought  of  the  girl.  As 
often  as  her  eyes  rested  upon  him  he  felt  his  face  tingle  and 
burn.  He  began  to  be  conscious  of  an  imprisoned  side  to 
his  nature,  the  passionate  side,  and  he  drew  back  afraid. 
This  wild  power,  this  tempest,  this  raging  fire  within,  God 
only  knew  whither  it  was  to  lead  him.  And  then  he  had 
given  a  hostage  to  fortune,  or  his  father  had  for  him. 

From  his  father's  gloomy  house  at  Knockaloe,  where  the 
winds  were  ever '  droning  in  the  trees,  he  looked  over  to 
Glenfaba,  and  it  seemed  to  him  like  a  little  white  cloud  lit 
up  by  the  sunshine.  His  heart  was  forever  calling  to  the 
sunny  spot  over  there,  ''  Glory  !  Glory  ! "  The  pity  of  it 
was  that  the  girl  seemed  to  understand  everything,  and  to 
know  quite  well  Avhat  kept  them  ajjai't.  She  flushed  with 
shame  that  he  should  see  her  wearing  the  same  clothes  con- 
stantly, and  with  head  aside  and  furtive  glances  she  talked 
of  the  days  when  he  would  leave  the  island  for  good,  and 
London  would  take  him  and  make  much  of  him,  and  he 
would  forget  all  about  his  friends  in  that  dead  old  place. 
Such  talk  cut  him  to  the  quick.  Though  he  had  seen  a  deal 
of  the  world,  he  did  not  know  much  about  the  conversation 
of  women. 

The  struggle  was  brief.  He  began  to  wear  plainer  clothes 
— an  Oxford  tweed  coat  and  a  flannel  shirt — to  talk  about 
fame  as  an  empty  word,  and  to  tell  his  father  that  he  was 
superior  to  all  stupid  conventions. 

His  father  sent  him  to  Australia.  Then  the  grown-up 
trouble  of  his  life  began. 

He  passed  through  the  world  now  with  eyes  open  for  the 
privations  of  the  pooi',  and  he  saw  everything  in  a  new 
light.  Unconsciously  he  w^as  doing  in  another  way  what 
his  mother  had  done  when  she  flew  to  relisrion  from  stifled 


22  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

passion.  He  had  been  broug'ht  up  as  a  sort  of  imperialist- 
democrat,  but  now  he  bettered  his  father's  instructions. 
England  did  not  want  more  Parliaments,  she  wanted  more 
apostles.  It  was  not  by  giving  votes  to  a  nation,  but  by 
strengthening  the  soul  of  a  nation,  that  it  became  gi^eat  and 
free.  The  man  for  the  hour  was  not  he  who  revolved 
schemes  for  making  himself  famous,  but  he  who  Avas  ready 
to  renounce  everything,  and  if  he  was  great  was  willing  to 
become  little,  and  if  he  was  rich  to  become  poor.  There 
was  room  for  an  apostle — for  a  thousand  apostles — who, 
being  dead  to  the  world's  glory,  its  money  or  its  calls,  were 
X)repared  to  do  all  in  Christ's  spirit,  and  to  believe  that  in 
the  renunciation,  which  was  the  "  secret "  of  Jesus,  lay  the 
only  salvation  remaining  for  the  world. 

He  tramped  through  the  slums  of  Melbovu'ne  and  Syd- 
ney, and  afterward  through  the  slums  of  London,  returned 
to  the  Isle  of  Man  a  Christian  Socialist,  and  announced  to 
his  father  his  intention  of  going  into  the  Church. 

The  old  man  did  not  fume  and  fly  out.  He  staggered 
back  to  his  room  like  a  bullock  to  its  pen  after  it  has  had  its 
death-blow  in  the  shambles.  In  the  midst  of  his  dusty  old 
bureau,  with  its  labelled  packets  full  of  cuttings,  he  realized 
that  twenty  years  of  his  life  had  been  wasted.  A  son  was  a 
separate  being,  of  a  different  growth,  and  a  father  was  only 
the  seed  at  tlie  root  that  must  decay  and  die. 

Then  he  made  some  show  of  resistance. 

"  But  with  your  talents,  boy,  surely  you  are  not  going  to 
throw  away  your  chances  of  a  great  name  ? " 

"I  care  nothing  for  a  great  name,  father,''  said  John. 
"I  shall  win  a  greater  victorj^  than  any  that  Parliament 
can  give  me." 

"  But,  my  boy,  ray  dear  boy  !  one  must  either  be  the 
camel  or  the  camel-driver  ;  and  then  society " 

"  I  hate  society,  and  society  would  hate  me.  It  is  only 
for  the  sake  of  the  few  godly  men  that  God  si)ares  it  as  he 
spared  Sodom  for  Lot's  sake." 

Having  braved  this  ordeal  and  nearlj'  broken  the  heart 
of  his  old  father,  he  turned  for  his  reward  to  Glory.  He 
found  her  at  her  usual  haunt  on  the  headlands. 


THE   OUTER  WORLD.  23 

"  I  was  blushing  when  you  came  ix]},  wasn't  i  ? "  she  said. 
"  Shall  I  tell  you  why  ?  " 

"  Why  ? " 

"  It  was  this,"  she  said,  with  a  sweep  of  her  hand  across 
her  bosom. 

He  looked  puzzled. 

"  Don't  you  understand  ?  This  old  rag — it's  the  one  I 
was  wearing  before  you  went  away." 

He  wanted  to  tell  her  how  well  she  looked  in  it — better 
than  ever  now  that  her  bosom  showed  under  its  seamless 
curves,  and  her  figure  had  grown  so  lithe  and  shapely.  But 
though  she  was  laughing  he  saw  she  was  ashamed  of  her 
poverty,  and  he  thought  to  comfort  her. 

"  I'm  to  be  a  poor  man  myself  in  future,  Glory.  I've 
quarrelled  with  my  father.     I'm  going  to  take  Orders." 

Her  face  fell.  "  Oh,  I  didn't  think  anybody  would  be 
poor  who  could  help  it.  To  be  a  clergyman  is  all  right  for 
a  poor  man,  perhaps,  but  1  hate  to  be  poor  ;  it's  hoi*rid." 

Then  darkness  fell  upon  his  eyes  and  he  felt  sad  and 
sick.  Glory  had  disappointed  him.  She  was  vain,  she  was 
worldly,  she  was  incapable  of  the  higher  things ;  she  would 
never  know  what  a  sacrifice  he  had  made  for  her  ;  she  would 
think,  nothing  of  him  now;  but  he  would  go  on  all  the 
same,  the  more  earnestly  because  the  devil  had  drawn  a 
bow  at  him  and  the  arrow  had  gone  in  up  to  the  feathers. 

"  With  God's  help  I  shall  nail  my  colours  to  the  mast," 
he  said. 

Thus  he  made  up  his  mind  to  follow  the  unrolling  of  the 
scroll.  He  had  the  strength  called  character.  The  Church 
had  been  his  beacon  before,  but  now  it  was  to  be  his  refuge. 

He  found  no  difficult}'  in  making  the  necessary  prepara- 
tions. For  a  year  he  read  the  Anglican  divines — Jeremy 
Taylor,  Hooker,  Butler,  Waterland,  Pearson,  and  Pusey — 
and  when  the  time  came  for  his  ordination  his  uncle,  the 
Earl  of  Erin,  who  was  now  Prime  Minister,  obtained  him  a 
title  to  a  curacy  under  the  popular  and  influential  Canon 
AVealthy  of  All  Saints,  Belgravia.  The  Bishop  of  London 
gave  letters  dimissory  to  the  Bishop  of  Sodor  and  Man,  by 
whom  he  was  examined  and  ordained. 

On  the  morning  of  his  departure  for  London  his  father, 


24  THE   CHRISTIAN". 

with  whom  there  had  in  the  meantime  been  trying  scenes, 
left  him  this  final  word  of  farewell :  "  As  I  understand  that 
you  intend  to  lead  the  life  of  poverty,  I  presume  that  you  do 
not  need  your  mother's  dowry,  and  I  shall  hold  myself  at 
liberty  to  dispose  of  it  elsewhere,  unless  you  require  it  for 
the  use  of  the  young  lady  who  is,  I  hear,  to  go  up  with 
you." 

V. 

"  I  WILL  be  a  poor  man  among  poor  men,"  said  J  ohn 
Storm  to  himself  as  he  drove  to  his  vicar's  house  in  Eaton 
Place,  but  he  awoke  next  morning  in  a  bedroom  that  did 
not  answer  to  his  ideas  of  a  life  of  poverty.  A  footman 
came  with  hot  w^ater  and  tea,  and  also  a  message  from  the 
canon  overnight  saying  he  would  be  pleased  to  see  Mr. 
Storm  in  the  study  after  breakfast. 

The  study  was  a  sumptuous  apartment  immediately  be- 
neath, with  soft  carpets  on  which  his  feet  made  no  noise, 
and  tiger-skins  over  the  backs  of  chairs.  As  he  entered  it  a 
bright-faced  man  in  middle  life,  clean-shaven,  wearing  a 
gold-mounted  pince-nez,  and  bubbling  over  with  politeness, 
stepped  forward  to  receive  him. 

"  Welcome  to  London,  my  dear  Mr.  Storm.  When  the 
letter  came  from  the  Prime  Minister  I  said  to  my  daughter 
Felicity — you  will  see  her  presently — I  trust  you  will  be 
good  friends — I  said,  'It  is  a  privilege,  my  child,  to  meet 
any  wish  of  the  dear  Earl  of  Erin,  and  I  am  proud  to  be  in 
at  the  beginning  of  a  career  that  is  sure  to  be  brilliant  and 
distinguished.' "' 

John  Storm  made  some  murmur  of  dissent. 

"  I  trust  you  found  your  rooms  to  your  taste,  ]\Ir. 
Storm  ? " 

John  Storm  had  found  them  more  than  he  expected  or 
desired. 

"Ah,  well,  humble  but  comfortable,  and  in  any  case 
please  regard  them  as  your  own,  to  receive  whom  you  please 
therein,  and  to  dispense  your  own  hospitalities.  Tiiis  house 
is  large  enough.  We  shall  not  meet  oftener  than  we  wish, 
so  we  can  not  quarrel.    The  only  meal  we  need  take  together 


THE  OUTER  WORLD.  25 

is  dinner.  Don't  expect  too  much.  Simple  but  whole- 
some— that's  all  we  can  promise  you  in  a  clergyman's  fam- 
ily." 

John  Storm  answered  that  food  was  an  indifPerent  mat- 
ter to  him,  and  that  half  an  hour  after  dinner  he  never  knew 
what  he  had  eaten.     The  canon  laughed  and  began  again. 

"  I  thought  it  best  you  should  come  to  us,  being  a  stranger 
in  Loudon,  though  I  coiifess  I  have  never  had  but  one  of 
my  clergy  residing  with  me  before.  He  is  here  now.  You'll 
see  him  by-and-bye.  His  name  is  Golightly,  a  simple, 
worthy  young  man,  from  one  of  the  smaller  colleges,  I  be- 
lieve. Useful,  you  know,  devoted  to  me  and  to  my  daugh- 
ter, but  of  course  a  different  sort  of  person  altogether,  and — 
er " 

It  was  a  peculiarity  of  the  canon  that  whatever  he  be- 
gan to  talk  about,  he  always  ended  by  talking  of  himself. 

"  I  sent  for  you  this  morning,  not  having  had  the  usual 
opportunity  of  meeting  before,  that  I  might  tell  you  some- 
thing of  our  organization  and  your  own  duties.  .  .  .  You  see 
in  me  the  head  of  a  staff  of  six  clei'gy." 

John  Storm  was  not  surprised  ;  a  great  preacher  must  be 
followed  by  flocks  of  the  poor ;  it  was  natural  that  they 
should  wish  him  to  help  them  and  to  minister  to  them. 

"  We  have  no  poor  in  my  parish,  Mr.  Storm." 

"  No  poor,  sir  ?  " 

"  On  the  contrary,  her  Majesty  herself  is  one  of  my  pa- 
rishioners." 

"  That  must  be  a  great  grief  to  you,  sir  ? " 

"  Oh,  the  poor  !  Ah,  yes,  certainly.  Of  course,  we  have 
our  associated  charities,  such  as  the  Maternity  Home,  founded 
in  Soho  by^Mrs.  Callender— a  worthy  old  Scotswoman — odd 
and  whimsical,  perhaps,  but  rich,  very  rich  and  influential, 
^y  clergy,  however,  have  enough  to  do  with  the  various 
departments  of  our  church  work.  For  instance,  there  is  the 
Ladies'  Society,  the  Fancy  Needlework  classes,  and  the  Dec- 
orative Flower  Guild,  not  to  speak  of  the  daughter  churches 
and  the  ministration  in  hospitals,  for  I  always  hold  — 
er " 

John  Storm's  mind  had  been  wandering,  but  at  the  men- 
tion of  the  hospital  he  looked  up  eagerly. 
3 


26  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

"  Ah,  yes,  the  hospital.  Your  own  duties  will  be  chiefly 
concerned  with  our  excellent  hospital  of  Martha's  Vine- 
yard. You  will  have  the  spiritual  care  of  all  patients  and 
nurses — yes,  nurses  also — within  its  precincts,  precisely  as  if 
it  were  your  pai'ish.  '  This  is  my  parish,'  you  will  say  to 
yourself,  and  treat  it  accordingly.  Not  yet  being  in  full 
Orders,  you  will  be  unable  to  administer  the  sacrament,  but 
you  will  have  one  service  daily  in  each  of  the  wards,  taking 
the  wards  in  rotation.  There  are  seven  wards,  so  there  will 
be  one  service  in  each  ward  once  a  week,  for  I  always  say 
that  fewer " 

"Is  it  enough?"  said  John.  "I  shall  be  only  too 
pleased " 

"  Ah,  well,  we'll  see.  On  Wednesday  evenings  we  have 
service  in'  the  church,  and  nurses  not  on  night  duty  are  ex- 
pected to  attend.  Some  fifty  of  them  altogether,  and  rather 
a  curious  compound.  Ladies  among  them  ?  Yes,  the 
daughters  of  gentlemen,  but  also  persons  of  all  classes.  You 
will  hold  yourself  responsible  for  their  spii'itual  welfare. 
Let  me  see — this  is  Friday — say  you  take  the  sermon  on 
Wednesday  next,  if  that  is  agreeable.  As  to  \'iews,  my  peo- 
ple are  of  all  shades  of  colour,  so  I  ask  my  clergy  to  take 
strictly  via  media  views — strictly  via  media.  Do  you  in- 
tone ? " 

John  Storm  had  been  wandering  again,  but  he  recovered 
himself  in  time  to  say  he  did  not. 

"  That  is  a  pity  ;  our  choir  is  so  excellent — two  violins,  a 
viola,  clai'inet,  'cello,  double  bass,  the  trumpets  and  drums, 
and'of  course  the  organ.     Our  organist  himself " 

At  that  moment  a  young  clergyman  came  into  the  room, 
making  apologies  and  bowing  subserviently." 

"Ah,  this  is  Mr.  Golightly — the — h"m — Hon.  and  Rev. 
Mr.  Storm. — You  will  take  charge  of  Mr.  Storm  and  bring 
him  to  church  on  Sunday  morning." 

Mr.  Golightly  delivered  his  message.  It  was  about  the 
organist.  His  wife  had  called  to  say  that  he  had  been  re- 
moved to  the  hospital  for  some  slight  operation,  and  there 
was  some  difficulty  about  the  singer  of  Sunday  morning's 
anthem. 

"  Most  irritating  !     Bring  her  up."     Tlie  curate  went  out 


THE   OUTER  WORLD.  27 

backward.  "  I  shall  ask  you  to  excuse  me,  Mr.  Storm.  My 
daughter,  Felicity — ah,  here  she  is." 

A  tall  young  woman  in  spectacles  entered. 

"  This  is  our  new  housemate,  Mr.  Storm,  nephew  of  dear 
Lord  Erin.  Felicity,  my  child,  I  wish  yovi  to  drive  Mr. 
Storm  round  and  introduce  him  to  our  people,  for  I  always 
say  a  young  clergyman  in  London " 

John  Storm  mumbled  something  about  the  Prime  Min- 
ister. 

"  Going  to  pay  your  respects  to  your  uncle  now  ?  Very 
good  and  proper.  Next  week  will  do  for  the  visits.  Yes, 
yes.     Come  in,  Mrs.  Koenig." 

A  meek,  middle-aged  woman  had  appeai^ed  at  the  door. 
She  was  dark,  and  had  deep  luminous  eyes  with  the  moist 
look  to  be  seen  in  the  eyes  of  a  tired  old  terrier.    • 

"  This  is  the  wife  of  our  organist  and  choir  master. 
Good  day !  Kindest  greetings  to  the  Prime  Minister.  .  .  . 
And,  by  the  way,  let  us  say  Monday  for  the  beginning  of 
your  chaplaincy  at  the  hospital." 

The  Earl  of  Erin,  as  First  Lord  of  the  Treasury,  occu- 
pied the  narrow,  ixnassuming  brick  house  which  is  the 
Treasury  residence  in  Downing  Street.  Although  the  offi- 
cial head  of  the  Church,  with  power  to  appoint  its  bishops 
and  highest  dignitaries,  he  was  secretly  a  sceptic,  if  not 
openly  a  derider  of  spiritual  things.  For  this  attitude  his 
early  love  passage  had  been  chiefly  accountable.  That 
strife  between  duty  and  passion  which  had  driven  the 
woman  he  loved  to  religion  had  driven  him  in  the  other 
direction  and  left  a  broad  swath  of  desolation  in  his  soul. 
He  had  seen  little  of  his  brother  since  that  evil  time,  and 
nothing  whatever  of  his  brother's  son.  Then  John  had 
written,  "  I  am  soon  to  be  bound  by  the  awful  tie  of  the 
priesthood,"  and  he  had  thought  it  necessaiw  to  do  some- 
thing for  him.  When  John  was  announced  he  felt  a  thrill 
of  tender  feeling  to  which  he  had  long  been  a  stranger. 
He  got  up  and  waited.  The  young  man  with  his  mother's 
face  and  the  eyes  of  an  enthusiast  was  coming  down  the 
long  corridor. 

John  Storm  saw  his  uncle  first  in  the  spacious  old  cabi- 
net room  which  looks  out  on  the  little  garden  and  the  Park, 


28  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

He  was  a  gaunt  old  man  with  meagre  mustache  and  hair, 
and  a  face  like  a  death's  head.  He  held  out  his  hand  and 
smiled.  His  hand  was  cold  and  his  smile  was  half  tearful 
and  half  saturnine. 

"  You  are  like  your  mother,  John." 

John  never  knew  her. 

"  When  I  saw  her  last  you  were  a  child  in  arms  and  she 
was  younger  than  you  are  now." 

"  Where  was  that,  uncle  ?  " 

"  In  her  coffin,  poor  girl." 

The  Prime  Minister  shuffled  some  papers  and  said, 
"  Well,  is  there  anything  you  wish  for  ?  " 

"  Nothing.  I've  come  to  thank  you  for  what  you've  done 
already." 

The  Prime  Minister  made  a  deprecatory  gesture. 

"  I  almost  wish  you  had  chosen  another  career,  John. 
Still,  the  Church  has  its  opportunities  and  its  chances,  and 
if  I  can  ever " 

"  I  am  satisfied  ;  more  than  satisfied,"  said  John.  "  My 
choice  is  based,  I  trust,  on  a  firm  vocation.  God's  work  is 
great,  sir  ;  the  greatest  of  all  in  London.  That  is  why  I  am 
so  grateful  to  you.     Think  of  it,  sir " 

John  was  leaning  forward  in  his  chair  with  one  arm 
stretched  out. 

"  Of  the  five  millions  of  people  in  this  vast  city,  not  one 
million  cross  the  threshold  of  church  or  chapel.  And  then 
remember  their  condition.  A  hundred  thousand  live  in 
constant  want,  slowly  starving  to  death  every  day  and  hour, 
and  a  quarter  of  the  old  people  of  London  die  as  paupers. 
Isn't  it  a  wonderful  scene,  sir  ?  If  a  man  is  willing  to  be 
spiritually  dead  to  the  world — to  leave  family  and  friends — 
to  go  forth  never  to  return,  as  one  might  go  to  his  execii- 
tion " 

The  Prime  Minister  listened  to  the  ardent  young  man 
who  was  talking  to  liim  tliei*e  with  his  mother's  voice,  and 
then  said — 

"  I'm  sorry." 

"Sorry?" 

"  I'm  afraid  I've  made  a  mi.stake." 

John  Storm  looked  puzzled. 


THE   OUTER   WORLD.  29 

"IVe  sent  you  to  the  wrong  place,  John.  When  3'ou 
wrote,  I  naturally  supposed  you  were  thinking  of  the  Church 
as  a  career,  and  I  tried  to  put  you  in  the  way  of  it.  Do  you 
know  anything  of  your  vicar  ? " 

John  knew  that  fame  spoke  of  him  as  a  great  preacher — 
one  of  the  few  who  had  passed  through  their  Pentecost  and 
come  out  with  the  gift  of  tongues. 

"  Precisely  !  "  The  Prime  Minister  gave  a  bitter  little 
laugh.  "But  let  me  tell  you  something  about  him.  He 
was  a  poor  curate  in  the  country  where  the  lord  of  the 
manor  chanced  to  be  a  lady.  He  married  the  lady  of  the 
manor.  His  wife  died  and  he  bought  a  London  parish. 
Then,  by  the  help  of  an  old  actor  who  gave  lessons  in  elocu- 
tion, he — well,  he  set  up  his  Pentecost.  Since  then  he  has 
been  a  fashionable  preacher  and  frequents  the  houses  of 
great  people.  Ten  years  ago  he  was  made  an  honorary 
canon,  and,  when  he  hears  of  an  appointment  to  a  bishopric, 
he  says  in  a  tearful  voice,  '  I  don't  know  what  the  dear 
Queen  has  got  against  me.'  " 
"Well,  sir  ?•' 

"  Well,  if  I  had  known  you  felt  like  that  I  should  scarcely 
have  sent  you  to  Canon  Wealthy.  And  yet  I  hardly  know 
where  else  a  young  man  of  your  opinions  .  .  .  I'm  afraid 
the  Church  has  a  good  many  Canon  Wealthys  in  it." 

"  God  forbid ! "  said  John.  "  No  doubt  there  are  Pharisees 
in  these  days  just  as  in  the  days  of  Christ,  but  the  Church  is 

still  the  pillar  of  the  State " 

"  The  caterpillar,  you  mean,  boy — eating  out  its  heart 
and  its  vitals." 

The  Prime  Minister  gave  another  bitter  little  laugh,  then 
looked  quickly  into  John's  flushed  face  and  said : 

"  But  it's  poor  work  for  an  old  man  to  sap  away  a  young 
man's  enthusiasm.'" 

"You  can't  do  that,  vmcle,"  said  John,  "because  God  is 
the  absolute  ruler  of  all  things,  good  and  bad,  and  he  gov- 
erns both  to  his  glory.     Let  him  only  give  us  strength  to 

endure  our  exile " 

"  I  don't  like  to  hear  you  talk  like  that.  John.  I  think  I 
know  what  the  upshot  will  be.  There's  a  gang  of  men  about 
—Anglican  Catholics  they  call  themselves  ;  well,  remember 


30  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

the  German  proverb,  'Every  priestling  hides  a  popeling.' 
.  .  .  And  if  you  are  to  be  in  the  Church,  John,  is  there  any 
reason  why  you  shouldn't  marry  and  be  reasonable  ?  To 
tell  you  the  ti"uth,  I'm  rather  a  lonely  old  man,  Avhatever  I 
may  seem,  and  if  your  mother's  son  would  give  me  a  sort 
of  a  grandson— eh  ? '' 

The  Prime  Minister  was  pretending  to  laugh  again. 

"  Come,  John,  come,  it  seems  a  pity — a  fine  young  fellow 
like  you,  too.  Are  there  no  sweet  young  gii'ls  about  in  these 
days  ?  Or  are  they  all  dead  and  gone  since  I  was  a  young 
fellow  ?  I  could  give  you  a  wide  choice,  you  know,  for 
when  a  man  stands  high  enough  ...  in  fact,  you  would 
find  me  reasonable — you  might  have  anybody  you  liked, 
rich  or  poor,  dark  or  fair. " 

John  Storm  had  been  sitting  in  torment,  and  now  he  rose 
to  go.  "  No,  uncle,"  he  said,  in  a  thicker  voice,  "  I  shall 
never  marry.  A  clergyman  who  is  married  is  bound  to  life 
by  too  many  ties.  Ev^en  his  affection  for  his  wife  is  a  tie. 
And  then  there  is  her  affection  for  the  world,  its  riches,  its 
praise,  its  honours. " 

"  Well,  well,  we'll  say  no  more.  After  all,  it's  better  than 
running  wild,  and  that's  what  most  young  men  seem  to  be 
doing  nowadays.  But  then  your  long  education  abroad — 
and  your  poor  father  left  to  look  after  himself  !  Good  day 
to  you.  Come  and  see  me  now  and  then.  How  like  joiiv 
mother  you  are  sometimes  !    Good-day  ! " 

When  the  door  of  the  cabinet  room  closed  on  John 
Storm  the  Prime  Minister  thought,  "  Poor  boy,  he's  laying 
up  for  himself  a  big  heartache  one  of  these  fine  days ! " 

And  John  Storm,  going  down  the  street  with  uncertain 
.  step,  said  to  himself :  "  How  strange  he  should  talk  like  that ! 
But,  thank  God,  he  didn't  produce  a  flicker  in  me.  I  died 
to  all  that  a  year  ago." 

Then  he  lifted  his  head  and  his  footstep  lightened,  and 
deep  in  some  secret  place  the  thought  cume  proudly,  "  She 
shall  see  that  to  renounce  the  world  is  to  possess  the  world 
— that  a  man  may  be  poor  and  have  all  the  kingdom  of  the 
world  at  his  feet." 

He  went  back  by  the  Underground  from  Westminster 
Bridge.    It  was  midday,  and  the  train  was  crowded.    His 


TPIE   OUTER  WORLD.  31 

spirits  were  high  and  he  talked  with  every  one  near  him. 
Getting  out  at  Victoria,  he  came  upon  his  vicar  on  the  plat- 
form and  saluted  him  rather  demonstratively.  The  canon 
responded  with  some  restraint  and  then  stepped  into  a  first- 
class  carriage. 

On  turning  into  Eaton  Place  he  came  upon  a  groui>  of 
people  standing  around  something  that  lay  on  the  pavement. 
It  was  an  old  woman,  a  tattered,  bedraggled  creature  with  a 
pinched  and  pallid  face.  "  Is  it  an  accident  ?  "  a  gentleman 
was  saying,  and  somebody  answered,  "  No,  sir,  she's  gorn  off 
in  a  faint."  "  Why  doesn't  some  one  take  her  to  the  hosx^i- 
tal  ?  "  said  the  gentleman,  and  then,  like  the  Levite,  he  passed 
by  on  the  other  side.  The  butcher's  cart  drew  up  at  the  curb, 
and  the  butcher  jumped  down,  saying,  "  There  never  is  no 
p'lice  about  when  they're  wanted  for  any  think." 

"  But  they  aren't  wanted  here,  friend,"  said  somebody 
from  the  outside.  It  was  John  Storm,  and  he  was  pushing 
his  way  through  the  crowd. 

"  Will  somebody  knock  at  that  door,  please  ? "  He  lifted 
the  old  thing  in  his  arms  and  carried  her  toward  the  canon's 
house.  The  footman  looked  aghast.  "  Let  me  know  when 
the  canon  returns,"  said  John,  and  then  marched  up  the 
carpeted  stairs  to  his  rooms. 

An  hour  afterward  the  old  woman  opened  her  eyes 
and  said :  "  Anythiuk  gorn  wrong  ?  Wot's  up  ?  Is  it  the 
work'us  ? '' 

It  was  a  clear  case  of  destitution  and  collapse.  John 
Storm  began  to  feed  the  old  creature  with  the  chicken  and 
milk  sent  up  for  his  own  lunch. 

Some  time  in  the  afternoon  he  heard  the  voice  and  step 
of  the  vicar  in  the  room  below.  Going  down  to  the  study, 
he  was  about  to  knock  ;  but  the  voice  continued  in  varying 
tones,  now  loud,  now  low.  During  a  pause  he  rapped,  and 
then,  with  noticeable  ix-ritation,  the  voice  cried,  "  Come 
in!" 

He  found  tlie  vicar,  with  a  manuscript  in  hand,  rehears- 
ing bis  Sunday's  sermon.  It  was  a  sliock  to  John,  but  it 
helped  him  to  understand  what  his  uncle  had  said  about  the 
canon's  Pentecost. 

The  canon's  brow  was  clouded.     "  Ah,  is  it  you  ?     I  was 


32  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

sorry  to  see  you  getting  out  of  a  third-class  carriage  to-day, 
Mr.  Storm." 

John  answered  that  it  was  the  poor  man's  class,  and  there- 
fore, he  thought,  it  ought  to  be  his. 

"  You  do  yourself  an  injustice,  Mr.  Storm.  Besides,  to  tell 
you  the  truth,  I  don't  choose  that  my  assistant  clergy '' 

John  looked  ashamed.  "If  that  is  your  view,  sir,"  he  said, 
"I  don't  know  what  you'll  say  to  what  I've  been  doing 
since." 

"  I've  heai'd  of  it,  and  I  confess  I'm  not  pleased.  "What- 
ever your  old  protegee  may  be,  my  house  is  no  place  for 
her.  I  help  to  maintain  charitable  institutions  for  such 
cases,  and  I  will  ask  you  to  lose  no  time  in  having  her  re- 
moved to  the  hospital." 

John  was  crushed.     "  Very  well,  sir,  if  that  is  your  wish  ; 

only  I  thought  you  said  my  rooms Besides,  the  poor 

old  thing  fills  her  jjlace  as  well  as  Queen  Victoria,  and  per- 
haps the  angels  are  watching  the  one  as  much  as  the  other." 

Next  day  Jolin  Storm  called  to  see  the  old  woman  at 
Martha's  Vineyard,  and  he  saw  the  matron,  the  house  doc- 
tor, and  a  staff  nurse  as  well.  His  adventure  was  known  to 
everybody  at  the  hospital.  Once  or  twice  he  caught  looks 
of  amused  compassion,  and  heard  a  twitter  of  laughter.  As 
he  stood  by  the  bed,  the  old  woman  muttered :  "  I  knoo  ez  it 
wuzn't  the  work'us,  my  dear.  He  spoke  to  me  friendly  and 
squeedged  my  'and." 

Coming  through  the  wards  he  had  looked  for  a  face  he 
could  not  see ;  but  just  then  he  was  aware  of  a  young 
woman,  in  the  print  di'ess  and  white  apron  of  a  nurse,  stand- 
ing in  silence  at  the  bed-head.  It  was  Glory,  and  her  eyes 
were  wet  with  tears. 

"  You  mustn't  do  such  things,"  she  said  hoarsely ;  "  I 
can't  bear  it,"  and  she  stamped  her  foot.  "  Don't  you  see 
that  these  people " 

But  she  turned  about  and  was  gone  before  he  could  re- 
ply. Glory  was  ashamed  for  liim.  Perhaps  she  had  been 
taking  his  part !  He  felt  the  blood  mounting  to  his  face, 
and  liis  cheeks  tingling.  Glory  !  His  eyes  were  swimming, 
and  he  dared  not  look  after  her ;  but  he  could  have  found  it 
in  his  heai't  to  kiss  the  old  bag  of  bones  on  the  bed. 


i 


THE   OUTER  WORLD,  33 

That  night  he  wrote  to  the  parson  in  the  island  :  "  Glory- 
has  left  off  her  home  garments,  and  now  looks  more  beauti- 
ful than  ever  in  the  white  simplicity  of  the  costume  of  the 
nurse.  Her  vocation  is  a  great  one.  God  grant  she  may 
hold  on  to  it  I  "  Then  something  about  the  fallacy  of  cere- 
monial religion  and  the  impossibility  of  pleasing  God  by 
such  religious  formalities.  ''  But  if  we  have  publicans  and 
Pharisees  now,  even  as  they  existed  in  Christ's  time,  all  the 
more  service  is  waiting  for  that  man  for  whom  life  has  no 
ambitions,  death  no  terrors.  I  thank  God  I  am  in  a  great 
measure  dead  to  these  things.  ...  1  will  fulfil  my  promise 
to  look  after  Glory.  My  constant  prayer  is  against  Agag. 
It  is  so  easy  for  him  to  get  a  foothold  in  a  girl's  heart  here. 
This  great  new  world,  with  its  fashions,  its  gaieties,  its 
beauty,  and  its  brightness — no  wonder  if  a  beautiful  young 
girl,  tingling  with  life  and  ruddy  health,  should  burn  with 
impatience  to  fling  herself  into  the  arms  of  it.  Agag  is  in 
London,  and  as  insinuating  as  ever." 


VI. 

On  Sunday  morning  his  fellow-curate  came  to  his  room 
to  accompany  him  to  church.  The  Rev.  Joshua  Go! ightly 
was  a  little  man  with  a  hook  nose,  small  keen  eyes,  scanty 
hair,  and  a  voice  that  was  something  between  a  whisper  and 
a  whistle.  He  bowed  subserviently,  and  made  meek  little 
speeches. 

"  I  do  trust  you  will  not  be  disaj)poiuted  with  our  church 
and  service.  We  do  all  we  can  to  make  them  worthy  of  our 
people." 

As  they  walked  down  the  streets  he  talked  first  of 
the  church  officers — there  were  honorary  wardens,  gentle- 
men sidesmen,  and  lady  superintendents  of  fioral  decora- 
tions ;  then  of  the  choir,  which  consisted  of  organist  and 
choir  master,  professional  members,  voluntary  members, 
and  choir  secretary.  The  anthem  was  sung  by  a  profes- 
sional singer,  generally  the  tenor  from  the  opera  ;  the  can- 
on could  always  get  such  people — he  was  a  great  favourite 
with  artistes  and  "  the  profession."     Of  course,  the  singei's 


34  THE   CHEISTIAN. 

were  paid,  and  tlie  difficulty  tliis  week  had  been  due  to  the 
exorbitant  fee  demanded  by  the  Italiaii  barytone  from  Co- 
vent  Garden. 

Disappointment  and  disenchantment  were  falhng  on 
John  Storm  at  every  step. 

All  Saints'  was  a  plain,  dark  structure  with  a  courtyard 
in  front.  The  bells  were  ringing,  and  a  line  of  carriages 
was  drawing  up  at  the  portico  as  at  the  entrance  to  a  theatre, 
discharging  their  occupants  and  passing  on.  Vergers  in 
yellow  and  bulf,  with  knee-breeches,  silk  stockings,  and 
powdered  wigs,  were  receiving  the  congregation  at  the 
doors. 

"  Let  us  go  in  by  the  west  door — I  should  like  you  to  see 
the  screen  to  advantage,"  said  Mr.  Golightly. 

The  inside  of  the  church  was  gorgeous.  As  far  up  as  the 
clerestory  every  wall  was  frescoed,  and  every  timber  of  the 
roof  was  gilded.  At  the  chancel  end  there  was  a  vvrought- 
iron  screen  of  delicate  tracery,  and  the  altar  was  laden  with 
gold  candlesticks.  Above  the  altar  and  at  either  side  of  it 
were  stained  glass  windows.  The  morning  sun  was  shining 
through  them  and  filling  the  chancel  with  warm  splashes 
of  light.  Ladies  in  beautiful  spring  dresses  were  following 
the  vergers  up  the  aisles. 

"This  way,"  the  curate  whispered,  and  John  Storm  en- 
tered the  sacristy  by  a  low  doorway  like  the  auditorium 
entrance  to  a  stage.  There  he  met  some  six  others  of  his 
fellow-curates.  They  nodded  to  him  and  went  on  arrang- 
ing their  surplices.  The  choir  were  gathering  in  their  own 
quarters,  where  the  violins  were  tuning  up  and  the  choir 
boys  were  laughing  and  behaving  after  their  kind. 

The  bell  slackened  and  stopped,  and  the  organ  began  to 
play.  When  all  were  ready  they  stepped  into  a  long  corri- 
dor and  formed  in  line  with  their  faces  to  the  chancel  and 
their  backs  to  a  little  door,  at  which  a  verger  in  blue  stood 
guard. 

"The  canon's  room,"  whispered  Mr.  Golightly. 

A  prayer  Avas  said  by  some  one,  the  choir  sang  the  re- 
sponse, and  then  they  walked  in  procession  to  their  places 
in  the  chancel,  the  choir  boys  first,  the  canon  last.  Seen 
through  the  tracery  of  the  screen,  the  congregation  appeai'ed 


THE   OUTER  WORLD.  35 

to  fill  every  sitting  in  the  church  with  a  hhnze  of  light  and 
colour,  and  the  atmosphere  was  laden  with  delicate  per- 
fume. 

The  service  was  choral.  An  anthem  Avas  sung  at  the 
close  of  the  sermon,  the  collection  being  made  dui'ing  the 
hymn  before  it.  The  i^rofe-ssional  singer  looked  like  any 
other  chorister  in  his  surplice,  save  for  his  swarthy  face  and 
heavy  mustache. 

The  canon  preached.  He  wore  his  doctor's  hood  of 
scarlet  cloth.  His  sermon  was  eloquent  and  literary,  and  it 
was  delivered  with  elocutionary  power.  There  were  many 
references  to  great  writers,  painters,  and  musicians,  includ- 
ing a  panegyric  on  Michael  Angelo  and  a  quotation  from 
Browning.  The  sermon  concluded  with  a  passage  from 
Dante  in  the  original. 

John  Storm  was  dazed  and  perplexed.  When  the  service 
was  over  he  came  out  alone,  returning  down  the  nave, 
which  was  now  empty  but  still  fragrant.  Among  other 
notices  pasted  on  a  board  in  the  porch  he  found  this  one  : 
"  The  vicar  and  wardens,  having  learned  with  regret  that 
purses  have  been  lost  on  leaving  the  church,  recommend 
the  congregation  to  bring  only  such  money  as  they  may 
need  for  the  offertory." 

Had  he  been  to  the  house  of  God  ?  No  matter !  God 
ruled  the  world  in  righteousness  and  wrought  out  every- 
thing to  his  own  glory. 

Next  morning  he  began  duty  as  chaplain  at  tlie  ho.spital, 
and  when  he  had  finished  the  reading  of  his  first  prayers  he 
could  see  that  he  had  lived  down  some  of  the  derision  due 
to  his  adventure  with  the  old  woman.  That  poor  old  bag  of 
bones  was  sinking  and  could  not  last  much  longer. 

Going  out  by  way  of  the  dispensary,  he  saw  Glory  again, 
and  heard  that  she  had  been  at  church  the  day  before.  It 
was  lovely.  All  those  hundreds  of  nice-looking  people  in 
gay  colours,  Avith  the  rustle  of  silk  and  the  hum  of  voices- 
it  was  beautiful — it  reminded  her  of  the  sea  in  summer. 
He  asked  her  what  she  thought  of  the  sermon,  and  she  said, 
"  Well,  it  wasn't  religion  exactly — not  what  I  call  religion — 
not  a  'reg'lar  rousing  rampage  for  sowls,'  as  old  Chaise  used 
to  say,  but " 


36  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

"  Glory,"  he  said  impetuously,  "  I'm  to  preach  my  first 
sermon  on  Wednesday." 

He  did  not  ask  her  to  come,  but  inquired  if  she  was  on 
night  duty.  She  answered  No,  and  then  somebody  called 
her. 

''She'll  be  there,"  he  told  himself,  and  he  walked  home 
with  uplifted  head.  He  would  look  for  her ;  he  would 
catch  her  eye  ;  she  would  see  that  it  was  not  necessary  to  be 
ashamed  of  him  again. 

And  then  close  behind,  very  close,  came  recollections  of 
her  appearance.  He  could  reconstruct  her  new  dress  by 
memory — lier  face  was  easy  to  remember.  "After  all, 
beauty  is  a  kind  of  virtue,"  he  thought.  "  And  all  natural 
friendship  is  good  for  the  progress  of  souls  if  it  is  built 
upon  the  love  of  God." 

He  wrote  nothing  and  learned  nothing  by  heart..  The 
only  preparation  he  made  for  liis  sermon  was  thought  and 
prayer.  When  the  Wednesday  night  came  he  was  very 
nervous.  But  the  church  was  nearly  empty,  and  the  vergers, 
who  were  in  their  everyday  clothes,  had  only  partially  lit  up 
the  nave.  The  canon  had  done  him  the  honour  to  be  pres- 
ent; his  fellow-curates  read  the  prayers  and  lessons. 

As  he  ascended  the  pulpit  he  thought  he  saw  the  white 
bonnets  of  a  group  of  nurses  in  the  dim  distance  of  one  of 
the  aisles,  but  he  did  not  see  Glory  and  he  dared  not  look 
again.  His  text  was,  "My  kingdom  is  not  of  this  world." 
He  gave  it  out  twice,  and  his  voice  sounded  strange  to  him- 
self— so  weak  and  tliin  in  that  hollow  place. 

When  he  began  to  speak  his  sentences  seemed  awkward 
and  difficult.  The  things  of  the  world  were  temporal  and 
the  nations  of  the  woi'ld  were  out  of  liarmony  with  God. 
Men  were  biting  and  devouring  each  other  wlio  ought  to 
live  as  brothers.  "  Cheat  or  be  cheated  "  was  the  rule  of 
life,  as  the  modern  philosopher  had  said.  On  the  one  side 
were  the  many  dying  of  want,  on  the  other  side  tlic  few  oc- 
cupied witli  ]ioetry  and  art,  writing  addresses  to  flowers,  and 
])eddling  in  the  portraiture  of  the  moods  and  methods  of 
love,  living  lives  of  frivolity,  taking  pleasui'e  in  mere  riches 
and  the  lusts  of  the  eye,  while  thousands  of  wretched  mor- 
tals were  grovelling  in  the  mire.  .  .  .  Then  where  was  our 


THE   OUTER  WORLD.  37 

refuge  ?  .  .  .  The  Church  was  the  refuge  of  God's  people 
.  .  .  from  Christ  came  the  answer — the  answer — the 

His  words  woukl  not  flow.  He  fought  hard,  threw  out 
another  passage,  then  stammered,  began  again,  stammered 
again,  felt  hot,  made  a  fresh  effort,  flagged,  rattled  out  some 
words  he  had  fixed  in  his  mind,  perspired,  lost  his  voice,  and 
finally  stopped  in  the  middle  of  a  sentence  and  said,  "And 
now  to  God  the  Father — "  and  came  down  from  the  pulpit. 

His  sermon  had  been  a  failure,  and  he  knew  it.  On 
going  back  to  the  sacristy  the  Reverend  Golightly  con- 
gratulated him  with  a  simper  and  a  vapid  smile.  The  canon 
was  more  honest  but  more  vain.  He  mingled  lofty  advice 
with  gentle  reproof.  Mr.  Storm  had  taken  his  task  too 
lightly.  Better  if  he  had  written  his  sermon  and  read  it. 
Whatever  might  serve  for  the  country,  congregations  in 
London — at  All  Sai)its'  esi^ecially — expected  culture  and- 
preparation. 

"  For  my  own  part  I  confess — nay,  I  am  proud  to  declare 
— my  watchword  is  Rehearse  !  Rehearse  1  Rehearse  ! " 

As  for  the  doctrine  of  the  sermon  it  was  not  above  ques- 
tion. It  was  necessary  to  live  in  the  nineteenth  century, 
and  it  was  impossible  to  apply  to  its  conditions  the  rules  of 
life  that  had  been  proper  to  the  first. 

John  Storm  made  no  resistance.  He  slept  badly  that 
night.  As  often  as  he  dozed  ofi^  he  dreamed  that  he  was  try- 
ing to  do  something  he  could  not  do,  and  when  he  awoke 
he  became  hot  as  Avith  the  memory  of  a  disgrace.  And 
always  at  the  back  of  his  shame  was  the  thought  of  Glory. 

Next  morning  he  was  alone  in  his  room  and  fumbling 
the  toast  on  his  breakfast  table,  when  the  door  opened  and 
a  cheery  voice  cried,  "  May  I  no  come  in,  laddie  ? " 

An  eldei'ly  lady  entered.  She  was  tall  and  slight  and 
had  a  long,  fine  face,  with  shrewd  but  kindly  eyes,  and 
■  nearly  snow-white  hair. 

"  I'm  Jane  Callender,"  she  said,  "  and  I  couldna  wait  for 
an  introduction  or  sic  bother,  but  must  just  come  and  see 
ye.  Ay,  laddie,  it  was  a  bonnie  sermon  yon !  I  havena 
heard  the  match  of  it  since  I  came  frae  Edinburgh  and  sat 
under  the  good  Doctor  Guthrie.  Now  he  was  nae  slavish 
reader  neither — none  of  your  paper  preachers  was  Thomas. 


38  THE- CHRISTIAN. 

My  word,  but  you  gave  us  the  right  doctrine,  too  I  They're 
given  over  to  the  worship  of  Beelzebub — half  these  church- 
going  folks  !  Oh,  these  Pharisees  I  They  are  enough  to 
sour  milk.  I  wish  they  had  one  neck  and  somebody  would 
just  squeeze  it.  Now,  where  did  ye  hear  that,  Jane  ?  But 
no  matter !  And  the  lasses  are  worse  than  the  men,  with 
their  fashions  and  foldololls.  They  love  Jesus,  but  they 
like  him  best  in  heaven,  not  bothering  down  in  Bel- 
gravia.  But  I  must  be  going  my  ways.  I  left  James  on 
the  street,  and  there's  nae  living  Avith  the  man  if  you  keep 
his  horses  waiting.  Good-morning  til  ye  !  But  eh,  laddie, 
I'm  afraid  for  ye  !  I'm  thinking — I'm  thinking  .  .  .  but 
come  and  see  me  at  Victoria  Square.     Good-morning  ! '' 

She  had  rattled  this  off  at  a  breath,  and  had  hardly  given 
time  for  a  reply,  when  her  black  silk  was  rustling  down  the 
stairs. 

John  Storm  remembered  that  the  canon  had  spoken  of 
her.  She  was  the  good  woman  who  kept  the  home  for  girls 
at  Soho. 

"  The  good  creature  only  came  to  comfort  me,'"  he  thought. 
But  Glory  I  "What  was  Glory  thinking  ?  That  morning 
after  prayers  at  the  hospital  he  went  in  search  of  her  in  the 
out-patient  department,  but  she  pretended  to  be  overwhelmed 
with  work,  and  only  nodded  and  smiled  and  excused  herself. 

"I  haven't  got  a  moment  this  morning  either  for  the 
king  or  his  dog.  I'm  up  to  my  ej-es  in  bandages,  and  have 
fourteen  plasters  on  my  conscience,  and  now  I  must  run 
away  to  my  little  boy  whose  leg  was  amputated  on  Satur- 
day." 

He  understood  her,  but  he  came  back  in  the  evening  and 
was  resolved  to  face  it  out. 

"What  did  you  think  of  last  night,  Glorj^?''  Then  she 
put  on  a  look  of  blank  amazement. 

"Why,  what  happened?  Oh,  of  course,  the  sermon! 
How  stupid  of  me  !     Do  you  know  I  forgot  all  about  it  ? " 

"  You  were  not  there,  then  ? '' 

"Don't  ask  me.  Really,  I'm  ashamed  ;  after  my  promise 
to  grandfather,  too  !  But  Wednesday  doesn't  count  anyway, 
does  it  ?    You'll  preach  on  Sunday — and  then  I "' 

His  feeling  of  relief  was  followed  by  a  sense  of  deeper 


THE  OUTER  WORLD.  39 

humiliation.  Glory  had  not  even  troubled  herself  to  re- 
member. Evidently  he  was  nothing  to  her,  nothing ;  while 
she 

He  walked  home  through  St.  James's  Park,  and  under 
the  tall  trees  the  peaceful  silence  of  the  night  came  down  on 
him.  The  sharp  clack  of  the  streets  was  deadened  to  a  low 
hum  as  of  the  sea  afai"  off.  Across  the  gardens  he  could  see 
the  clock  in  the  tower  of  Westminster,  and  hear  the  great 
bell  strike  the  quarters.  London  !  How  little  and  selfish  all 
personal  thoughts  were  in  the  contemplation  of  the  mighty 
city !  He  had  been  thinking  only  of  himself  and  his  own 
little  doings.     It  was  all  so  small  and  pitiful ! 

"  Did  my  shaine  at  my  failure  in  the  pulpit  proceed  solely 
from  fear  of  losing  the  service  of  God,  or  did  it  proceed 
from  wounded  ambition,  from  pride,  from  thoughts  of 
Glory " 

But  the  peaceful  stars  were  over  him.  It  was  a  majestic 
night. 


VII. 

"  Martha's  Vineyard. 

"  Dear  Auntie  Rachel  :  Tell  grandpa,  to  begin  with, 
that  John  Storm  preached  his  first  sermon  on  Wednesday 
last,  and,  according  to  programme,  I  was  there  to  hear  it. 
Oh,  God  b^.ess  me !  What  a  time  I  had  of  it !  He  broke 
down  in  the  middle,  taking  stage  fi'ight  or  pulpit  fright  or 
some  such  devilry,  though  there  was  nothing  to  be  afraid 
of  except  a  bandboxful  of  chattering  girls  who  didn't  listen, 
and  a  few  old  fogies  with  ear-trumpets.  I  was  sitting  in 
the  darkness  at  the  back,  effectually  concealed  from  the 
preacher  by  the  broad  shoulders  of  Ward  Sister  Allworthy, 
who  is  an  example  of  'delicate  femaleism ',  just  verging  on 
old-maidenism.  They  tell  me  the  '  discoorse '  was  a  short 
one,  but  I  never  got  so  many  prayers  into  the  time  in  all 
my  boini  days,  and  my  breath  was  coming  and  going  so 
fast  that  the  Sister  must  have  thought  they  had  set  up  a 
pumping-engine  in  the  pew  behind  her.  Our  poor,  heavy- 
If^den  Mr.  Storm  has  been  here  since  then  with  his  sad  and 

•er  face,  but  I  hadn't  the  stuff  in  me  to  tell  him  the  truth 


40  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

about  the  sermon,  so  I  told  him  I  had  forgotten  to  go  and 
hear  it,  and  may  the  Lord  have  mercy  on  ray  soul ! 

"  You  want  to  know  how  I  employ  my  time  ?  Well, 
lest  you  should  think  I  give  ujj  my  days  to  dreams  and  my 
nights  to  idleness,  I  hasten  to  tell  that  I  rise  at  6,  breakfast 
at  6.30,  begin  duty  at  7,  sup  at  9.30  P.  M.,  gossip  till  10,  and 
then  go  into  my  room  and  put  myself  to  bed  ;  and  there  1 
am  at  the  end  of  it.  Being  only  a  probationer,  I  am  chiefly 
in  the  out  patient  department,  where  my  duties  are  to  col- 
lect the  things  wanted  at  the  dispensary,  make  the  patients 
ready  to  see  the  surgeon,  and  pass  them  on  to  the  dressers. 
My  patients  at  present  are  the  children,  and  I  love  them, 
and  shall  break  my  heart  when  I  have  to  leave  them. 
They  are  not  always  too  well  looked  after  by  the  surgeon, 
but  that  doesn't  matter  in  the  least,  because,  you  see,  they 
are  constantly  watched  by  the  best  and  most  learned  doctor 
in  the  world — that's  me. 

"  Last  Saturday  I  had  my  first  experience  of  the  operat- 
ing theatre.  Gracious  goodness !  I  thought  I  shouldn't 
survive  it.  Fortunately,  I  had  my  dressings  and  sponges 
to  look  after,  so  I  just  stiffened  my  back  Avith  a  sort  of 
imaginary  six-foot  steel  bar,  and  went  on  'like  blazes.' 
But  some  of  these  staff  nurses  are  just  'ter'ble' ;  they  take  a 
professional  pleasure  in  descending  to  that  inferno,  and 
wouldn't  miss  a  '  theatre '  for  worlds.  On  Saturday  it  was 
a  little  boy  of  five  who  had  his  leg  amputated,  and  now 
when  you  ask  the  white-faced  dai'ling  where  he's  going  to 
he  says  he's  going  to  the  angels,  and  he'll  get  lots  of  gristly 
pork  up  there.     He  is  too. 

"The  personnel  oi  our  vinej^ard  is  abundant,  but  there 
are  various  sour  grapes  growing  about.  We  have  a  medical 
school  (containing  lots  of  nice  boys,  only  a  girl  may  not  speak 
to  them  even  in  the  corridors),  and  a  full  staff  of  honorary 
and  visiting  physicians  and  surgeons.  But  the  only  doc- 
tor we  really  have  much  to  do  with  is  the  house  surgeon, 
a  young  fellow  who  has  just  finished  his  student's  course. 
His  name  is  Abery,  and  since  Saturday  he  has  so  mucli 
respect  for  Glory  that  she  ijiight  even  swear  in  his  presence 
(in  Manx),  but  Sister  Allworthy  takes  care  that  she  doepn'^ 
having  designs  on  his  celibacy  her.self.    He  must  havt^  s  '  ..• 


THE  OUTER  WORLD.  41 

his  Te  Deiim  after  the  operation,  for  he  got  gloriously  drunk 
and  wanted  to  inject  morphia  in  a  patient  recovering  from 
trouble  of  the  kidney.  It  was  an  old  hippopotamus  of  a 
German  musician  named  Koenig,  and  he  was  in  a  frantic 
terror.  So  I  whispered  to  him  to  pretend  to  go  to  sleep,  and 
then  I  told  the  doctor  I  had  lost  the  syringe.  But — '  Gough 
hless  me  sowl ! ' — what  a  dressing  the  Sister  gave  me  ! 

"Yesterday  was  visiting-day,  and  when  the  friends  of 
the  patients  come  even  an  hospital  can  have  its  humours. 
They  try  to  sneak  in  little  dainties  which  may  be  delicious 
in  themselves,  but  are  deadly  poison  to  the  people  they  are 
intended  for.  Then  we  have  to  search  under  the  bed- 
clothes of  the  patients,  and  even  feel  the  pockets  of  their 
visitors.  The  mother  of  my  little  boy  came  yesterday,  and 
I  noticed  such  a  large  protuberance  at  her  bosom  under  her 
ulster  that  I  began  to  foresee  another  operation.  It  was 
only  a  brick  of  currant  cake,  paved  with  lemon  peel.  I 
hauled  it  out  and  moved  round  like  a  cloud  of  thunder  and 
lightning.  But  she  began  to  cry  and  to  say  she  had  made 
it  herself  for  Johnnie,  and  then — well,  didn't  I  just  get  a 
wigging  from  the  Sister,  though  ! 

"  But  I  don't  mind  what  happens  here,  for  I  am  in  Lon- 
don, and  to  be  in  London  is  to  live,  and  to  live  is  to  be  in 
London.  I've  not  seen  much  of  it  yet,  having  only  two 
hours  off  duty  every  day — from  ten  to  twelve — and  then  all 
I  can  do  is  to  make  little  dips  into  the  park  and  the  district 
round  about,  like  a  new  pigeon  with  its  wings  clipped. 
But  I  watch  the  great  new  world  from  my  big  box  up  here, 
and  see  the  carriages  in  the  park  and  the  people  riding  on 
horseback.  They  have  a  new  handshake  in  London.  You 
lift  your  hand  to  the  level  of  your  shoulder,  and  then  wag- 
gle horizontally  as  if  you  had  put  your  elbow  out;  and 
when  you  begin  to  speak  you  say,  '  I — er — '  as  if  you  had 
got  the  mumps.  But  it  is  beautiful !  The  sound  of  the 
traffic  is  like  music,  and  I  feel  like  a  wai'-horse  that  wants 
to  be  marching  to  it.  How  delightful  it  is  to  be  young  in  a 
world  so  full  of  loveliness  !  And  if  you  are  not  very  ugly 
it's  none  the  worse. 

"  All  hospital  nurses  are  just  now  basking  in  the  sunshine 
of  a  ^  'coming  ball.  It  is  to  be  given  at  Bartimaeus's 
4 


42  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

Hospital,  where  they  have  a  lecture  theatre  larger  than  the 
common,  and  the  dancing  there  is  for  once  to  be  to  a  happier 
tune.  All  the  earth  is  to  be  present — all  the  hospital  earth — 
and  if  I  could  afford  to  array  myself  in  the  necessary  splen- 
dour, I  should  show  this  benighted  London  what  an  abso- 
lute angel  Glory  is  !  But  then  my  first  full  holiday  is  to  be 
on  the  24th,  when  I  expect  to  be  out  from  10  A.  M.  until  10 
P.  M.  I  am  nearly  crazy  whenever  I  think  of  it,  and  when 
the  time  comes  to  make  my  first  plunge  into  London,  I 
know  I  shall  hold  my  breath  exactly  as  if  I  were  taking  a 
header  off  Creg  Malin  rocks.  .  .  .  Glory.'' 


VIII. 

On  the  morning  of  the  24th  Glory  rose  at  five,  that  she 
might  get  through  her  work  and  have  the  entire  day  for  her 
holiday.  At  that  hour  she  came  upon  a  rough-haired  nurse 
wearing  her  cap  a  little  on  one  side  and  washing  a  floor 
with  disinfectants.  Beiiig  in  great  spirits,  Glory  addressed 
her  cheerfully. 

"  Are  you  off  to-day  too  ? "  she  said. 

The  nurse  gave  her  a  contemptuous  glance  and  answered  : 
"I'm  not  one  of  your  paying  probationers.  Miss — playing 
probationers  I  call  them.  We  nurses  are  hard-working 
women,  whose  life  spells  duty ;  and  we've  got  no  time  for 
sight-seeing  and  holiday-making." 

"  No,  but  you  are  one  of  those  who  ruin  the  profession 
altogether,"  said  a  younger  woman  who  had  just  come  up. 
"  They  will  expect  everybody  to  do  the  same.  This  is  my 
day  off,  but  I  have  to  do  the  gi-ate,  and  sweep  the  ward,  and 
make  the  bed,  and  tidy  the  Sister's  room — and  it's  all  through 
people  like  you.  Small  thanks  you  get  for  it  either,  for  a  girl 
may  not  even  wear  her  hair  in  a  fringe,  and  she  is  always 
expecting  to  hear  the  matron's  '  You're  not  fit  for  nursing. 
Miss.' " 

Glory  looked  at  her.  She  was  an  exquisitely  pretty  girl, 
with  dax'k  hair,  pink  and  ivory  cheeks,  and  light-gray  eyes; 
but  her  hands  were  coarse,  and  her  finger  nails  flat  and 
square,  and  when   you   looked  again  there  was  a  certaiii 


THE   OUTER  WORLD.  43 

blemished  appearance  about  her  beauty  as  of  a  Sevres  vase 
that  is  cracked  somewhere. 

"  Do  you  say  you  are  off  to-day  ?  "  said  Glory. 

"  Yes,  I  am  ;  are  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  but  I'm  strange  to  London.  Could  you  take  me 
with  you — if  you  are  going  nowhere  in  particular  ? '' 

"  Certainly,  dear.  I've  noticed  you  before  and  wanted 
to  speak  to  you.  You're  the  girl  with  the  splendid  name — 
Glory,  isn't  it  ? " 

"  Yes  ;  what  is  yours  ? " 

"  Polly  Love." 

At  ten  o'clock  that  morning  the  two  girls  set  out  for 
their  long  day's  jaunt. 

"Now  where  shall  we  go  ?"  said  Polly. 

"Let's  go  where  we  can  see  a  great  many  people,"  said 
Glory. 

"That's  easy  enough,  for  this  is  the  Queen's  birthday, 
and " 

Glory  thought  of  Aunt  Rachel  and  made  a  cry  of  de- 
light. 

"  And  now  that  I  think  of  it,"  said  Polly,  as  if  by  a  sud- 
den memory,  "  I've  got  tickets  for  the  trooping  of  the  colours 
— the  Queen's  colom-s,  you  know." 

"  Shall  we  see  her  ? "  said  Glory. 

"  What  a  question  !  Why,  no,  but  we'll  see  the  soldiers, 
and  the  generals,  and  perhaps  the  Prince.  It's  at  ten-thirty, 
and  only  across  the  park." 

"  Come  along,"  said  Glory,  and  she  began  to  drag  at  her 
companion  and  to  run. 

"  My  gracious,  what  a  girl  you  are,  to  be  sure  !  " 

But  they  were  both  running  in  another  minute,  and 
latighing  and  chattering  like  children  escaped  from  school. 
In  a  quarter  of  an  hour  they  were  at  the  entrance  to  the 
Horse  Guards.  There  was  a  crowd  at  the  gates,  and  a  po- 
liceman was  taking  tickets.     Polly  dived  into  her  pocket. 

"  Where  are  mine  ?  Oh,  here  they  are.  A  great  friend 
gave  me  them,"  she  whispered.  "  He  has  a  chum  in  one  of 
those  offices." 

"  A  gentleman,"  said  Glory  with  studied  politeness  ;  biit 
they  were  crushing  through  the  gate   by  that  time,  and 


4,1  THE   CHRISTIAN. 

thereafter  she  had  eyes  and  ears  for  iiotliing  but  the  pageant 
before  her. 

It  was  a  beautiful  morning,  and  the  spring  foliage  of  the 
park  was  very  green  and  fresh.  Three  sides  of  the  great 
square  were  lined  with  redcoats ;  the  square  itself  was 
thronged  with  peo^jle,  and  every  window  and  balcony  looking 
over  it  was  filled.  There  were  soldiers,  sentries,  policemen, 
the  generals  in  cocked  hats,  and  the  Prince  himself  in  a 
bearskin,  riding  by  with  the  jingle  of  spurs  and  curb-chain. 
Then  the  ta-ra-ta-ta-ra  of  the  bugle,  the  explosive  voice  cry- 
ing, "  Escort  for  the  colour  I "  the  officer  carrying  it,  the  white 
gloves  of  the  staff  fluttering  up  the  salute,  the  flash  of  bayo- 
nets, the  march  round,  and  the  band  playing  The  British 
Grenadiers.  It  was  like  a  dream  to  Glory.  She  felt  her 
bosom  heaving,  and  was  afraid  she  was  going  to  cry. 

Polly  was   laughing   and  prattling  merrily.     "Ha,  ha, 
ha !  see  that  soldier  chasing  a  sunshade  ?    My !  he  has  caught  , 
it  with  his  sword." 

"  I  suppose  these  are  all  great  people,"  whispered  Glory. 

"  I  should  think  so,"  said  Polly.  "  Do  you  see  that  gen- 
tleman in  the  window  opposite  ? — that's  the  Foreign  Of- 
fice." <" 

"  Which  ? "  said  Glory,  but  her  eyes  Avere  wandering. 

"  The  one  in  the  frock-coat  and  the  silk  hat,  talking  to 
the  lady  in  the  green  lawn  and  the  black  lace  fichu  and  the 
spring  bonnet." 

"  You  mean  beside  that  plain  gii'l  wearing  the  jungle  of 
rhododendrons  ? " 

"  Yes ;  that's  the  gentleman  that  gave  my  friend  tlie 
tickets." 

Glory  looked  at  him  for  a  moment,  and  something  very 
remote  seemed  to  stir  in  her  memory  ;  but  the  band  was 
jilaying  once  more,  and  she  was  wafted  away  again.  It  was 
God  save  the  Queen  tliis  time,  and  when  it  ended  and  every- 
body cried  "All  over!"  she  took  a  long,  deep  breath  and 
said.  "  Well .' "      . 

Polly  was  laughing  at  her,  and  Glory  had  to  laugh 
also.  They  set  each  other  off  laughing,  and  people  began 
to  look  at  them,  and  then  they  had  to  laugh  again  and  run 
away. 


THE   OUTER  WORLD.  45 

"  This  Glory  is  the  funniest  girl,"  said  Polly  ;  "  she  is  sur- 
prised at  the  simplest  thing." 

They  went  to  look  at  the  shops,  passing  up  Regent  Street, 
across  the  Circus  and  down  Oxford  Street  toward  the  City, 
laughing  and  talking  nonsense  all  the  time.  Once  when 
they  made  a  little  purchase  at  a  shop  the  shopwoman  looked 
astonished  at  the  freedom  with  which  they  carried  them- 
selves, and  after  that  they  felt  inclined  to  go  into  every  shop 
in  the  street  and  behave  absurdly  everywhere.  In  the 
course  of  two  hours  they  had  accomplished  all  the  innocent 
follies  possible  to  the  intoxication  of  youth,  and  were  per- 
fectly happy. 

By  this  time  they  had  reached  the  Bank  and  were  feeling 
the  prickings  of  hunger,  so  they  looked  out  a  restaurant  in 
Cheapside  and  went  in  for  some  dinner*.  The  place  was  full 
of  men,  and  several  of  them  rose  at  once  when  the  two  girls 
entered.  They  were  in  their  out-door  hospital  costume,  but 
there  was  something  showy  about  Polly's  toilet,  and  the 
men  kept  looking  their  way  and  smiling.  Glory  looked 
back  boldly  and  said  in  an  audible  voice,  "  What  fun  it 
must  be  to  be  a  barmaid,  and  to  have  the  gentlemen  wink 
at  you,  and  be  laughing  back  at  them  !  "  But  Polly  iiudged 
her  and  told  her  to  be  quiet.  She  looked  down  herself,  but 
nevertheless  contrived  to  use  her  eyes  as  a  kind  of  furtive 
electric  battery  in  the  midst  of  the  most  innocent  conversa- 
tion. It  was  clear  that  Polly  had  flown  farthest  in  the 
ways  of  the  world,  and  when  you  looked  at  her  again  you 
could  see  that  the  balance  of  her  life  had  been  deranged  by 
some  one. 

After  dinner  the  girls  got  into  an  omnibus  and  went  still 
farther  east,  sitting  at  opposite  sides  of  the  car,  and  laughing 
and  talking  loudly  to  each  other,  amid  the  astonishment  of 
the  other  occupants.  But  when  they  came  to  mean  and 
ugly  streets  with  green-grocers'  barrows  by  the  curbstone, 
and  weird  and  dreary  cemeteries  in  the  midst  of  gaunt, 
green  sticks  that  were  trying  to  look  like  trees,  Glory 
thought  they  had  better  return. 

They  went  bacjc  by  the  Thames  steamboat  from  some 
landing  stage  among  the  docks.  The  steamer  picked  up 
passengers  at  every  station  on  the   river,  and  at  London 


46  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

Bridge  a  band  came  aboard.  As  they  sailed  under  St.  Paul's 
tlie  boat  was  crowded  witb  people  going  west  to  see  the  cele- 
brations in  honour  of  the  birthday,  and  the  band  was  play- 
ing And  her  Golden  Hair  w^as  hanging  down  her  Back. 

At  one  moment  Glory  was  wild  with  delight,  and  at  the 
next  her  gaiety  seemed  to  be  suddenly  extinguished.  The 
sun  was  setting  behind  the  towers  of  Westminster  in  a  mag- 
nificent lake  of  fire,  and  it  seemed  like  the  sun  going  down 
at  Peel,  except  that  the  lights  beneath,  which  glistened  and 
flashed,  were  windows,  not  waves,  and  the  deep  hum  was 
not  the  noise  of  the  mighty  sea,  but  the  noise  of  mighty 
millions. 

They  landed  at  Westminster  Bridge  and  went  to  a  tea- 
room for  tea.  When  they  came  out  it  was  quite  dark,  and 
they  got  on  to  the  top  of  an  omnibus.  But  the  town  was 
now  ablaze  with  gas  and  electric  lights  that  were  flinging 
out  the  initials  of  the  Queen,  and  Whitehall  was  dense  witli 
carriages  going  to  the  official  receptions.  Glory  wanted  to 
be  in  the  midst  of  so  much  life,  so  the  girls  got  down  and 
walked  arm  in  arm. 

As  they  passed  through  Piccadilly  Circus  they  were 
laughing  again,  for  the  oppression  of  the  crowds  made  them 
happy.  The  throng  was  greatest  at  that  point  and  they  had 
to  push  their  way  through.  Among  others  there  were  many 
gaily-dressed  women,  who  seemed  to  be  v/aiting  for  omni- 
buses. Glory  noticed  that  two  of  these  women,  who  were 
grimacing  and  lisping,  had  spoken  to  a  man  who  was  also 
lounging  about.    She  tugged  at  Polly's  arm. 

"  That's  strange  !     Did  you  see  that  ?  "  she  said. 

"  That !  Oh,  that's  nothing.  It's  done  every  day,"  said 
Polly. 

"  What  does  it  mean  ? "  said  Glory. 

"Why,  you  don't  mean  to  say — well,  this,  Glory 

Really  your  friends  ought  to  take  care  of  j-ou,  my  dear,  you 
are  so  ignorant  of  the  world." 

And  then  suddenly,  as  by  a  flash  of  lightning.  Glory  had 
her  first  glimpse  of  the  tragic  issues  of  life. 

"  Oh,  my  gracious !  Come  along,"  she  whispered,  and 
dragged  Polly  after  her. 

They  were  panting  past  the  end  of  St.  James's  Street 


THE   OUTER  WORLD.  47 

when  a  man  with  an  eye-glass  and  a  great  shield  of  shirt- 
front  collided  with  them  and  saluted  them.  Glory  was 
for  forging  ahead,  but  Polly  had  drawn  up. 

"  It's  only  my  friend,"  said  Polly  in  another  voice. — "  This 
is  a  new  nurse.     Her  name  is  Glory." 

The  man  said  something  about  a  glorious  name  and  a 
glorious  pleasure  to  be  nursed  by  such  a  nurse,  and  then 
both  the  girls  laughed.  He  was  glad  they  had  found  his 
tickets  useful,  but  sorry  he  could  not  see  them  back  to  the 
hospital,  being  dragged  away  to  the  bally  Foreign  Office  re- 
ception in  honour  of  the  Queen's  birthday. 

"  But  I'm  coming  to  the  ball,  you  know,  and,"  with  a 
glance  at  Glory,  "  I've  half  a  mind  to  bring  my  chum  along 
with  me!" 

"Oh,  do,"  said  Polly,  partly  covering  the  pupils  of  her 
eyes  with  her  eyelids. 

Tlie  man  lowered  his  voice  and  said  something  about 
Glory  which  Glory  did  not  catch,  then  waved  his  white-kid 
glove,  saying  "  Ta-ta,"  and  was  gone. 

"  Is  he  married  ? "  said  Glory. 

"  Married !  Good  gracious,  no  ;  what  ridiculous  ideas 
you've  got ! " 

It  was  ten  minutes  after  ten  as  the  girls  turned  in  at  a 
sharp  trot  at  the  door  of  the  hospital,  still  prattling  and  chat- 
tering and  bringing  some  of  the  gaiety  and  nonsense  of 
their  holiday  into  the  quiet  precincts  of  the  house  of  pain. 
The  porter  shook  his  finger  at  them  with  mock  severity,*  and 
a  ward  Sister  going  through  the  porch  in  her  white  silence 
stopped  to  say  that  a  patient  had  been  crying  out  for  one  of 
them. 

"  It's  me — I  know  it's  me,"  said  Polly.  "  I've  got  a 
brother  here  out  of  a  monastery,  and  lie  can't  do  with  any- 
body else  about  him.     It  makes  me  tired  of  my  life." 

But  it  was  Glory  who  was  wanted.  The  w^oman  whom 
John  Storm  had  picked  up  out  of  the  streets  was  dying. 
Glory  had  helped  to  nm'se  her,  and  the  poor  old  thing  had 
kept  herself  alive  that  she  might  deliver  to  Glory  her  last 
charge  and  message.  She  could  see  nobody,  so  Glory  leaned 
over  the  bed  and  spoke  to  her. 

"  I'm  here,   mammie ;  what  is  it  2 "  she  said,   and  the 


48  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

flushed  young  face  bent  close  above  the  withered  and  white 
one. 

"  He  spoke  to  me  friendly  and  squeedged  my  'and,  he 
did.  S'elp  me  never,  it's  true.  Gimme  a  black  cloth  on  the 
corfln,  my  dear,  and  mind  yer  tell  'im  to  foller." 

"  Yes,  mammie,  yes.     I  will — be  sure  I — I Oh  ! " 

It  was  Glory's  first  death. 


IX. 

John  Storm  had  been  throug-h  his  first  morning  call  that 
afternoon.  For  this  ordeal  he  had  presented  himself  in  a 
flannel  shirt  in  the  hall,  where  the  canon  was  waiting  for 
him  in  patent-leather  boots  and  kid  gloves,  and  his  daughter 
Felicity  in  cream  silk  and  white  feathers.  After  they  had 
seated  themselves  in  the  carriage  the  canon  said  :  "  You 
don't  quite  do  yourself  justice,  Mr.  Storm.  Believe  me,  to 
be  well  dressed  is  a  great  thing  to  a  young  man  making  his 
way  in  London." 

The  carriage  stopped  at  a  house  that  seemed  to  be  only 
round  the  corner. 

"This  is  Mrs.  Macrae's,"  the  canon  whispered.  "An 
American  lady — widow  of  a  millionaire.  Her  daughter — 
you  will  see  her  presently — is  to  marry  into  one  of  our  best 
English  families." 

They  were  walking  up  the  wide  staircase  behind  the 
footman  in  blue.  There  was  a  buzz  of  voices  coming  from 
a  room  above. 

"  Canon — er — Wealthy,  Miss  Wealthy,  and — er — the — 
h'm— Rev.  Mr.  Storm  !  " 

The  buzz  of  voices  abated,  and  a  bright-faced  little 
woman,  showily  dressed,  came  forward  and  welcomed  them 
with  a  marked  accent.  There  were  several  other  ladies  in 
the  room,  but  only  one  gentleman.  This  person,  who  was 
standing,  with  teacup  and  saucer  in  hand,  at  the  farther 
side,  screwed  an  eyeglass  in  his  eye,  looked  across  at  John 
Storm,  and  then  said  something  to  the  lady  in  the  chair  be- 
side him.  The  lady  tittered  a  little.  John  Storm  looked 
back  at  the  man,  as  if  by  an  instinctive  certainty  that  ho 


THE  OUTER  WORLD.  49 

must  know  him  when  he  saw  him  again.  He  was  engulfed 
in  a  high,  stiff  collar,  and  was  rather  ugly ;  tall,  slender,  a 
little  past  thirty ;  fair,  with  soft,  sleepy  eyes,  and  no  life  in 
his  expression,  but  agreeable ;  fit  for  good  society,  with  the 
stamp  of  good  breeding,  and  capable  of  saying  little  humor- 
ous things  in  a  thin  "  roofy  "  voice. 

"  I  was  real  sorrj^  I  didn't  hear  Mr.  Storm  Wednesday 
evening,"  Mrs.  Macrae  was  saying,  with  a  mincing  smile. 
"  My  daughter  told  me  it  was  just  too  lovely. — Mercy,  this 
is  your  great  preacher.  Persuade  him  to  come  to  my '  At 
Home'  Tuesday." 

A  tall,  dark  girl,  with  gentle  manners  and  a  beautiful 
face,  came  slowly  forward,  put  her  hand  into  John's,  and 
looked  steadily  into  his  eyes  without  speaking.  Then  the 
gentleman  with  the  eyeglass  said  suavely,  "  Have  you  been 
long  in  London,  Mr.  Storm  ?  " 

"  Two  weeks,"  John  answered  shortly,  and  half  turned 
his  head. 

"  How — er — interesting  ! "  with  a  prolonged  drawl  and  a 
little  cold  titter. 

"  Oh,  Lord  Robert  Ure — Mr.  Storm,"  said  the  hostess. 

"  Mr.  Storm  has  done  me  the  honour  to  become  one  of 
my  assistant  clergy,  Lord  Robert,"  said  the  canon,  "but  he 
is  not  likely  to  be  a  curate  long." 

"That  is  charming,"  said  Lord  Robert.  "  It  is  alwaj^s  a 
relief  to  hear  that  I  am  likely  to  have  one  candidate  the  less 
for  my  poor  perpetual  curacy  in  Pimlico.  They're  at  me 
like  flies  round  a  honey-pot,  don't  you  know.  I  thought  I 
had  made  the  acquaintance  of  all  the  perpetual  curates  in 
Christendom.  And  what  a  sweet  team  they  are,  to  be  sure  ! 
The  last  of  them  came  yesterday.  I  was  out,  and  my  friend 
Drake — Drake  of  the  Home  OfRce,  you  know — couldn't  give 
the  man  the  living,  so  he  gave  him  sixpence  instead,  and 
the  creature  went  away  quite  satisfied." 

Everybody  seemed  to  laugh  except  Jolm,  who  only 
stared  into  the  air,  and  the  loudest  laughter  came  from  the 
canon.     But  suddenly  an  incisive  voice  said  : 

"  But  why  sharpen  your  teeth  on  the  poor  curates  ?  Is 
there  no  a  canon  or  a  bishop  handy  that's  better  worth  a 
bite?" 


50  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

It  was  Mrs.  Callender. 

"  I  tell  ye  a  story  too,  only  mine  shall  be  a  true  one." 

"  Jane !  Jane ! "  said  the  hostess,  shaking  her  fan  as  a 
weapon  ;  and  Lord  Eobert  stretched  his  neck  over  his  collar 
and  made  an  amiable  smile. 

"  A  girl  of  eighteen  came  to  me  this  morning  at  Soho, 
and  she  was  in  the  usual  trouble.  The  father  was  a  wicked 
rector.  He  died  last  year  leaving  thirty-one  thousand 
pomids  ;  and  the  mother  of  his  unfortunate  child — that  is  to 
say,  his  mistress — is  now  in  the  Union." 

It  was  the  first  sincere  word  that  had  been  spoken,  Avhere 
every  tone  had  been  wrong,  every  gestiu*e  false,  and  it  fell 
on  the  company  like  a  thunderclap.  John  Storm  drew  his 
breath  hard,  looked  i\])  at  Lord  Eobert  by  a  strange  impulse, 
and  felt  himself  avenged. 

"  What  a  beautiful  day  it  has  been  I "  said  somebody. 
Everybody  looked  up  at  the  maker  of  this  surprising  re- 
mark. It  was  a  lady,  and  she  blushed  until  her  cheeks 
burned  again. 

A  painful  silence  followed,  and  then  the  hostess  turned 
to  Lord  Robert  and  said  : 

"You  s]^oke  of  your  friend  Drake,  didn't  you  ?  Every- 
body is  talking  of  him,  and  as  for  the  girls,  they  seem  to  be 
crazy  abovit  the  man.  So  handsome,  they  say  ;  so  natural, 
and  such  a  sj)lendid  talker.  But  tlien,  girls  are  so  quick  to 
take  fancies  to  people.  You  really  must  take  care  of  your- 
self, my  dear."  (This  to  Felicity.)  "Who  is  he?  Lord 
Robert  Avill  tell  you — an  official  of  some  kind,  and  son  of 
Sir  something  Drake,  of  one  of  the  northern  counties.  He 
knows  the  secret  of  getting  on  in  the  world,  though  he 
doesn't  go  about  too  much.  But  I've  determined  not  to  live 
any  longer  without  making  the  acquaintance  of  this  won- 
derful being,  so  Lord  Robert  must  just  bring  him  along 
Tuesday  evening,  or  else " 

John  Storm  escaped  at  last,  without  promising  to  come 
to  the  "At  Home."  He  went  direct  to  the  hospital  and 
learned  that  Glory  was  out  for  the  day.  Where  slie  could 
have  gone,  and  what  she  could  be  doing,  puzzled  him  griev- 
ously. That  she  had  not  put  herself  under  his  counsel  and 
direction  on  her  first  excursion  abroad  hurt  his  pride  and 


THE   OUTER  WORLD.  5X 

wounded  liis  sense  of  responsibility.  As  the  nig-ht  fell  his 
anxiety  increased.  Though  he  knew  she  would  not  return 
until  ten,  he  set  out  at  nine  to  meet  her. 

At  a  venture  he  took  the  eastward  course,  and  passed 
slowly  down  Piccadilly.  The  facade  of  nearly  every  club 
facing  the  park  was  J0-aming  with  electric  light.  Young 
men  in  evening  dress  were  standing  on  the  steps,  smoking 
and  taking  the  air  after  dinner,  and  pretty  girls  in  showy 
costumes  were  promenading  leisurely  in  front  of  them. 
Sometimes,  as  a  girl  passed,  she  looked  sharply  up  and  the 
corner  of  her  mouth  would  be  raised  a  little,  and  when  she 
had  gone  by  there  would  be  a  general  burst  of  laughter. 

John's  blood  boiled,  and  then  his  heart  sank  ;  he  felt  so 
helpless,  his  \)itj  and  indignation  were  so  useless  and  un- 
necessary. All  at  once  he  saw  what  he  had  been  looking 
for.  As  he  went  by  the  corner  of  St.  James's  Street  he 
almost  ran  against  Glory  and  another  nurse  in  the  costume 
of  their  hospital.  They  did  not  observe  him  ;  they  were 
talking  to  a  man  ;  it  was  the  man  he  had  met  in  the  after- 
noon— Lord  Eobert  Ure. 

John  heard  the  man  say ,  "  Your  Glory  is  such  a  glori- 
ous  ''  and  then  he  lowered  his  voice,  and  appeared  to  say 

something  that  was  very  amusing,  for  the  other  girl  laughed 
a  great  deal. 

John's  soul  was  now  fairly  in  revolt,  and  he  wanted  to 
stop,  to  order  the  man  off  and  to  take  charge  of  the  two 
nurses  as  his  duty  seemed  to  require  of  him.  But  he  passed 
them,  then  looked  back  and  saw  the  group  separate,  and 
as  the  man  went  by  he  watched  the  girls  going  westward. 
There  was  a  glimpse  of  them  under  the  gas-lamp  as  they 
crossed  the  street,  and  again  a  glimpse  as  they  passed  into 
the  darkness  under  the  trees  of  the  park. 

He  could  not  trust  himself  to  return  to  the  hospital  that 
night,  and  his  indignation  was  no  less  in  the  morning.  But 
there  was  a  letter  from  Glory  saying  that  his  poor  old  friend 
was  dead,  and  had  begged  that  he  would  bury  her.  He 
dressed  himself  in  his  best  ("We  can't  take  liberties  with  the 
poor,"  he  thought)  and  walked  across  to  the  hospital  at  once. 
There  he  asked  for  Glory,  and  they  went  downstairs  to- 
gether to  that  still  chamber  underground  which  has  always 
its  cold  and  silent  occupant.    It  is  only  a  short  tenancy  that 


52  THE  CHEISTIAN. 

anybody  can  have  there,  so  the  okl  woman  had  to  be  buried 
the  same  morning.  The  parish  was  to  bury  her,  and  the 
van  was  at  the  door. 

He  was  standing  with  Glory  in  the  hall,  and  his  heart 
had  softened,  to  her. 

"Glory,"  he  said,  "you  shouldn't  have  gone  out  yester- 
day without  telling  me,  the  dangei'S  of  London  are  so  great." 

"  What  dangers?  "  she  asked. 

"  Well,  to  a  young  girl,  a  beautiful  girl " 

Glory  peered  up  under  her  long  eyelashes. 

"  I  mean  the  dangers  from — I'm  ashamed  in  my  soul  to 
say  it — the  dangers  from  men." 

She  shot  up  a  quick  glance  into  his  face  and  said  in  a 
moment,  "  You  saw  us,  didn't  you  ? " 

"Yes,  I  saw  you,  and  I  didn't  like  your  choice  of  com- 
pany." 

She  dropped  her  head  demurely  and  said,  "  The  man?  " 

John  hesitated.  "  I  was  speaking  of  the  girl.  I  don't 
like  the  freedom  with  which  she  carries  herself  in  this  house. 
Among  these  good  and  devoted  women  is  there  no  one  but 
this— this ?" 

Glory's  lower  lip  began  to  show  its  inner  side.  "  She's 
bright  and  lively,  that's  all  I  care." 

"  But  it's  not  all  /  care,  Glory,  aiid  if  such  men  as  that 
are  her  friends  outeide " 

Glory's  head  went  up.  "  What  is  it  to  me  who  are  her 
friends  outside?" 

"  Everything,  if  you  allow  your.self  to  meet  them  again." 

"  Well,"  doggedly,  "  I  am  going  to  meet  them  again. 
I'm  going  to  the  Nurses'  Ball  on  Tuesday." 

John  answered  with  deliberation,  "  Not  in  that  girl's 
company." 

"  Why  not  ?  " 

"  I  say  not  in  that  girl's  company." 

There  was  a  short  pause,  and  then  Glory  said  with  a 
quivering  mouth :  "You  are  vexing  me,  and  you  will  end 
by  making  me  cry.  Don't  you  see  you  are  degrading  me 
too  ?  I  am  not  used  to  being  degraded.  You  see  me  with 
a  weak  silly  creature  who  hasn't  an  idea  in  her  head  and 
can  do  nothing  but  giggle  and  laugh  and  make  eyes  at 


THE   OUTER  WORLD.  53 

men,  and  you  tliink  I'm  going  to  be  led  away  by  her.  Po 
you  suppose  a  girl  can't  take  care  of  herself  ?  " 

"  As  you  will,  then,"  said  John,  with  a  fling  of  his  hand, 
going  off  down  the  steps. 

"  Mr.  Storm— Mr.  Storm— Jo— Joh " 

But  he  was  out  on  the  pavement  and  getting  into  the 
workhouse  van. 

"Ah!  "said  a  mincing  voice  beside  her.  "How  jolly  it 
is  when  anybody  is  suffering  for  your  sake  ! "  It  was  Polly 
Love,  and  again  her  eyelids  were  half  covexnng  her  eyes. 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  said  Glory. 
Her  own  eyes  were  swimming  in  big  tear-drops. 

"  Don't  you  ?  What  a  funny  girl  you  are !  But  your 
education  has  been  neglected,  my  dear." 

It  was  a  combination  van  and  hearse  with  the  coffin 
under  the  driver's  box,  and  John  Storm  (as  the  only  dis- 
coverable mourner)  with  the  undertaker  on  the  seat  in- 
side. 

"  Will  ye  be  willin'  ter  tyke  the  service  at  the  cimitery, 
sir  ? "  said  the  undertaker,  and  John  answered  that  he 
would. 

The  grave  was  on  the  paupers'  side,  and  when  the  under- 
taker, with  his  man,  had  lowered  the  coffin  to  its  place,  he 
said,  "  They've  gimme  abart  three  more  funerals  this  morn- 
ing, so  I'll  leave  ye  now,  sir,  to  finish  'er  off." 

At  the  next  moment  John  Storm  in  his  surplice  was 
alone  with  the  dead,  and  had  opened  his  book  to  read  the 
burial  service  which  no  other  human  ear  was  to  hear. 

He  read  "Dust  to  dust,  ashes  to  ashes,"  and  then  the 
bitter  loneliness  of  the  pauper's  doom  came  down  on  his 
soul  and  sileticed  him. 

But  his  imprisoned  passion  had  to  find  a  vent,  and  that 
night  he  wrote  to  the  Prime  Minister :  "  I  begin  to  under- 
stand what  you  meant  when  you  said  I  was  in  the  wrong 
place.  Oh,  this  London,  with  its  society,  its  woi'ldly  clergy, 
its  art,  its  literature,  its  luxury,  its  idle  'life,  all  built  on  the 
toil  of  the  country  and  compounded  of  the  sweat  of  the 
nameless  poor !  Oh,  this  '  Circe  of  cities,'  drawing  good 
people  to  it,  decoying  them,  seducing  them,  and  then  turn- 
ing them  into  swine !    It  seems  impossible  to  live  in  the 


54  THE   CHRISTIAN. 

world  and  to  be  spiritually-minded.     When  I  try  to  do  so  I 
am  torn  in  two." 


On  the  following  Tuesday  evening  two  young  men  were 
dining  in  their  chambers  in  St.  James's  Street.  One  of  them 
was  Lord  Robert  Ure  ;  the  other  was  his  friend  and  house- 
mate, Horatio  Drake.  Drake  was  younger  than  Lord  Robert 
by  some  seven  or  eight  years,  and  also  beyond  comparison 
more  attractive.  His  face  was  manly  and  handsome,  its  ex- 
pression was  open  and  breezy ;  he  was  broad-shouldered  and 
splendidly  built,  and  he  had  the  fair  hair  and  blue  eyes  of  a 
boy. 

Their  room  was  a  large  one,  and  it  was  full  of  beautiful 
and  valuable  things,  but  the  furniture  was  huddled  about 
in  disorder.  A  large  chamber-organ,  a  grand  piano,  a  man- 
dolin, and  two  violins,  pictures  on  the  floor  as  well  as  on 
the  walls,  many  photographs  scattered  about  everywhere, 
and  the  mirror  over  the  mantelpiece  fringed  with  invita- 
tion-cards, which  were  stuck  between  the  glass  and  the 
frame. 

Their  man  had  brought  in  the  coffee  and  cigai'ettes.  Lord 
Robert  was  speaking  in  his  weary  drawl,  which  had  the 
worn-out  tone  of  a  man  who  had  made  a  long  journey  and 
was  very  sleepy. 

"Come,  dear  boy,  make  up  your  mind,  and  let  us  be  off.'' 

"  But  I'm  tired  to  death  of  these  fashionable  routs.'' 

"  So  am  I." 

"  They're  so  unnatural — so  unnecessary." 

"  My  dear  fellow,  of  course  they're  unnatural — of  course 
they're  unnecessary  ;  but  what  would  you  have  ?  " 

"  Anything  human  and  natural,"  said  Drake.  "  I  don't 
care  a  ha'p'orth  about  the  morality  of  these  things — not  I— - 
but  I  am  dead  sick  of  their  stupidity." 

Lord  Robert  made  languid  puffs  of  his  cigarette,  and 
said,  in  a  tearful  drawl :  "  My  dear  Drake,  of  course  it  is  ex- 
actly as  you  say.  Who  doesn't  know  it  is  so  ?  It  has  al- 
ways been  so  and  always  will  be.  But  what  refuge  is  there 
for  the  poor  leisured  people  but  these  diversions  which  you 


THE   OUTER  WORLD.  55 

despise  ?  And  as  for  the  poor  titled  classes— well,  they  man- 
age to  make  their  play  their  business  sometimes,  don't  you 
know.      Confess  that  they  do  sometimes,  now,  eh  ? " 

Lord  Robert  was  laughing  with  an  awkward  constraint, 
but  Drake  looked  frankly  into  his  face  and  said  : 

"  How's  that  matter  going  on,  Robert  ? '' 

"  Fairly,  I  think,  though  the  girl  is  not  very  hot  on  it. 
The  thing  came  off  last  week,  and  when  it  was  over  I  felt  as 
if  I  had  proposed  to  the  girl  and  been  accepted  by  the 
mother,  don't  you  know.  I  believe  this  rout  to-night  is  ex- 
pressly in  honour  of  the  event,  so  I  mustn't  run  away  from 
my  bargain." 

He  lay  back,  sent  funnels  of  smoke  to  the  ceiling,  and 
then  said,  with  a  laugh  like  a  gurgle :  "  I'm  not  likely  to, 
though.  That  eternal  dun  was  here  again  to-day.  I  had  to 
tell  him  that  the  marriage  would  come  off  in  a  year  certain. 
That  was  the  only  understanding  on  which  he  would  agree 
to  wait  for  his  money.  Bad  ?  Of  course  it's  bad  ;  but  what 
would  you  have,  dear  boy  ?  " 

The  men  smoked  in  silence  for  a  moment,  and  then  Lord 
Robert  said  again  :  "  Come,  old  fellow,  for  friendship's  sake, 
if  nothing  else.  She's  a  decent  little  woman,  and  dead  bent 
on  having  you  at  her  house  to-night.  And  if  you're  badly 
bored  we'll  not  stay  long.  We'll  come  away  early  and — 
listen — we'll  slip  across  to  the  Nurses'  Ball  at  Bartimaeus's 
Hospital ;  there'll  be  fun  enough  there,  at  all  events." 

"  I'll  go,"  said  Drake. 

Half  an  hour  later  the  two  young  men  were  driving  up 
to  the  door  of  Mrs.  Macrae's  house  in  Belgrave  Square. 
There  was  a  line  of  carriages  in  front  of  it,  and  they  had  to 
wait  their  turn  to  approach  the  gate.  Footmeti  in  gorgeous 
livery  were  ready  to  open  the  cab  door,  to  help  the  guests 
across  the  red  baize  that  lay  on  the  pavement,  to  usher  them 
into  the  hall,  to  lead  them  to  the  little  marble  chamber  where 
they  entered  their  names  in  a  list  intended  for  the  next  day's 
Morning  Post,  and  finally  to  direct  them  to  the  great  stair- 
case where  the  general  crush  moved  slowly  up  to  the  saloon 
above. 

T'  the  well  of  the  stairs,  half  hidden  behind  a  little  forest 
o'"  ■  and  ferns,  a  band  in  yellow  and  blue  uniform  sat 


56  THE  CHRISTIAN". 

playing  tlie  people  in.  On  the  landing  the  hostess  stood 
waiting  to  receive,  and  many  of  the  guests,  by  a  rotary 
movement  like  the  waters  of  a  maelstrom,  moved  past  her 
in  a  rapid  and  babbling  stream,  twisted  about  her,  and  came 
down  again.  She  welcomed  Lord  Robert  eflfusively,  and 
motioned  to  him  to  stand  by  her  side.  Then  she  introduced 
her  daughter  to  Drake  and  sent  them  adrift  through  the  rooms. 

The  rooms  were  large  ones  with  parquet  flooring  from 
which  all  furniture  had  been  removed,  except  the  palms 
and  ferns  by  the  walls  and  the  heavy  chandeliei\s  overhead. 
It  was  not  yet  ten  o'clock,  but  already  the  house  was 
crowded,  and  every  moment  there  were  floods  of  fresh  ar- 
rivals. First  came  statesmen  and  diplomatists,  then  people 
who  had  been  to  the  theatres,  and  toward  the  end  of  the 
evening  some  of  the  actors  themselves.  The  night  was  close 
and  the  atmosphere  hot  and  oppressive.  At  the  farther  end 
of  the  suite  there  was  a  refreshment-room  with  its  lantern 
lights  pulled  open  ;  and  there  the  crush  was  densest  and 
the  commotion  greatest.  The  click-clack  of  many  voices 
cut  the  thick  air  as  with  a  thousand  knives,  and  over  the 
multitudinous  clatter  there  was  always  the  unintelligible 
boom  of  the  band  downstairs. 

Most  of  the  guests  looked  tired.  The  men  made  some 
effort  to  be  cheerful,  but  the  women  were  frankly  jaded 
and  fagged.  Bedizened  with  diamonds,  coated  with  paint 
and  powder,  laden  with  rustling  silks,  they  looked  weary 
and  worn  out.  When  spoken  to  they  would  struggle  to 
smile,  but  the  smiles  would  break  down  after  a  moment  into 
dismal  looks  of  misery  and  oppi'ession. 

"  Had  enough  ? "  whispered  Lord  Robert  to  Drake. 

Drake  was  satisfied,  and  Lord  Robert  began  to  make 
their  excuses. 

"Going  already!"  said  Mrs.  Macrae.  "An  official  en- 
gagement, you  say  ? — Mr.  Drake,  is  it  ?  Oh,  don't  tell  me  ! 
I  know — /  know  !  Well,  you'll  be  married  and  settled  one 
of  these  days — and  then  !  " 

They  were  in  a  hansom  cab  driving  across  London  in 
the  direction  of  Bartinuieus's  Hospital.  Drake  was  bare- 
headed and  fanning  himself  with  his  crush  hat.  Lord 
Robert  was  ligliting  a  cigarette. 


THE   OUTER  WORLD.  57 

"  Pshaw  !  What  a  stifling'  den  !  Did  you  ever  hear  such 
a  clitter-clatter  ?  A  perfect  Tower  of  Babel  building  com- 
pany !  Wliat  in  the  name  of  common  sense  do  people  sup- 
pose they're  doing  by  penning  themselves  up  like  that  on  a 
night  like  this  ?    What  are  they  thinking  about  ?  " 

"  Thinking  about,  dear  boy  ?  You're  unreasonable  !  No- 
body wants  to  think  about  anything  in  such  scenes  of  charm- 
ing folly." 

"  But  the  women  !  Did  you  ever  see  such  faded,  worn- 
out  dummies  for  the  display  of  diamonds  ?  Poor  little 
women  in  their  splendid  misery !  I  was  sorry  for  your 
fiancee,  Robert.  She  was  the  only  woman  in  the  house 
without  that  hateful  stamp  of  worldliness  and  affectation." 

"  My  dear  Drake,  you've  learned  many  things,  but  there's 
one  thing  you  have  not  yet  learned — you  haven't  learned 
how  to  take  serious  things  as  trifles,  and  trifles  as  serious 
things.  Learn  it,  my  boy,  or  you'll  embitter  existence.  You 
are  not  going  to  alter  the  conditions  of  civilization  by  any 
change  in  your  own  particular  life ;  so  just  look  out  the 
prettiest,  wittiest,  wealthiest  little  woman  who  is  a  dummy 
for  the  display  of  diamonds " 

"  Me  ?  Not  if  I  know  it,  old  fellow !  Give  me  a  little 
nature  and  simplicity,  if  it  hasn't  got  a  second  gown  to  its 
back." 

"All  right — as  you  like,"  said  Lord  Robert,  flinging  out 
the  end  of  his  cigarette.  "  You've  got  the  pull  of  some  of 
us — you  can  please  yourself.  And  here  we  are  at  old  Bax'- 
timaeus's,  and  this  is  a  very  different  pair  of  shoes  !  " 

They  were  driving  out  of  one  of  London's  main  thor- 
oughfares, through  a  groined  archway,  into  one  of  London's 
ancient  buildings  with  its  quiet  quadrangle  where  trees 
grow  and  birds  sing.  Every  window  of  the  square  was 
lighted  up,  and  there  was  a  low  murmur  of  music  being 
played  within." 

"Listen!"  said  Lord  Robert.  "I  am  here  ostensibly  as 
the  guest  of  the  visiting  j^hysician,  don't  you  know,  but 
really  in  the  interests  of  the  little  friend  I  told  you  of." 

"  The  one  I  got  the  tickets  for  last  week  ? " 

"  Precisely." 

At  the  next  moment  they  were  in  the  ballroom.     It  was 


58  THE   CHRISTIAN. 

the  lecture  theatre  for  the  students  of  the  hospital  school^ 
a  building  detached  from  the  wards  and  of  circular  shape, 
with  a  gallery  round  its  walls,  which  were  festooned  with 
flags  and  roofed  with  a  glass  dome.  Some  two  hundred 
girls  and  as  many  men  were  gathei^ed  there ;  the  pit  was 
their  dancing  ring  and  the  gallery  was  their  withdrawing 
room.  The  men  were  nearly  all  students  of  the  medical 
schools ;  the  girls  were  nearly  all  nurses,  and  they  wore 
their  uniform.  There  was  not  one  jaded  face  among  them, 
not  one  weary  look  or  tired  expression.  They  were  in  the 
fulness  of  youth  and  the  height  of  vigour.  The  girls 
laughed  with  the  ring  of  joy,  their  eyes  sparkled  witli  the 
light  of  happiness,  their  cheeks  glowed  with  the  freshness 
of  health. 

The  two  men  stood  a  moment  and  looked  on. 

"  "Well,  what  do  you  think  of  it  ? "  said  Lord  Robert. 

Drake's  wide  eyes  were  ablaze,  and  his  voice  came  in 
gusts. 

"  Think  of  it !  "  he  said.  "  It's  wonderful !  It's  glori- 
ous ! " 

Lord  Robert's  glass  had  dropped  from  his  eye,  and  he  was 
laughing  in  his  drawling  way. 

"  Wliat  are  you  laughing  at  ?  Women  like  these  are  at 
least  natural,  and  Natvire  can  not  be  put  on." 

The  mazurka  had  just  finished,  and  the  dancers  were 
breaking  iato  groups. 

"  Robert,  tell  me  who  is  that  girl  over  there — the  one 
looking  this  way  ?    Is  it  your  friend  ? " 

Lord  Robert  readjusted  his  glass. 

"  The  pretty  dark  girl  with  the  pink-and-white  cheeks, 
like  a  doll?" 

"  Yes ;  and  the  taller  one  beside  her — all  hair,  and  eyes, 
and  bosom.  She's  looking  across  noAV.  I've  seen  that  girl 
before  .somewhere.  Now,  where  have  I  seen  her  ?  Look  at 
her — what  fii'e,  and  life,  and  movement !  The  dance  is  over, 
but  she  can't  keep  her  feet  still." 

"  I  see — I  see.  But  let  me  introduce  you  to  the  matron 
and  doctors  first,  and  then " 

"  I  know  now — I  know  where  I've  &eeu  her  !  Be  quick, 
Robert,  be  quick  ! " 


THE   OUTER  WORLD.  59 

Lord  Robert  laughed  agaiu  in  his  tired  drawl.  He  was 
finding  it  very  amusing. 

XI. 

When  Glory  learned  that  all  nurses  eligible  to  attend 
the  ball  were  to  wear  hospital  uniform,  being  on  day  duty 
she  decided  to  go  to  it.  But  then  came  John  Storm's  pro- 
test against  the  company  of  Polly  Love,  and  she  felt  half 
inclined  to  give  it  up.  As  often  as  she  remembered  his  re- 
monstrance she  was  disturbed,  and  once  or  twice  when  alone 
she  shed  tears  of  anger  and  vexation. 

Meantime  Polly  was  full  of  arrangements,  and  Glory 
found  herself  day  by  day  carried  along  in  the  stream  of 
preparation.  When  the  night  came  the  girls  dressed  in  the 
same  cubicle.  Polly  was  prattling  like  a  parrot,  but  Glory 
was  silent  and  almost  sad. 

By  help  of  the  curling  tongs  and  a  candle  Polly  did  up 
her  dark  hair  into  little  knowing  curls  that  went  in  and  out 
on  her  temples  and  played  hide-and-seek  around  the  pretty 
shells  of  her  pink-aud-white  ears.  Glory  was  slashing  the 
comb  through  her  golden-red  hair  by  way  of  preliminary 
ploughing,  when  Polly  cried  :  "  Stop  !  Don't  touch  it  any 
more,  for  goodness'  sake !  It's  perfect !  Look  at  yourself 
now." 

Glory  stood  off  from  the  looking  glass  and  looked.  "  Am 
I  really  so  nice  ? "  she  thought ;  and  then  she  remembered 
John  Storm  again,  and  had  half  a  mind  to  tear  down  her 
glorious  curls  and  go  straight  away  to  bed. 

She  went  to  the  ball  instead,  and,  being  there,  she  forgot 
all  about  her  misgivings.  The  light,  the  colovu',  the  bril- 
liance, the  perfume  transported  her  to  an  enchanted  world 
which  she  had  never  entered  before.  She  could  not  control 
her  delight  in  it.  Everything  surprised  her,  everything 
delighted  hei\  everything  amused  her — she  was  the  very 
soul  of  girlish  joy.  The  dark-brown  spot  on  her  eye  shone 
out  with  a  coquettish  light  never  seen  in  it  until  now, 
and  the  warble  in  her  voice  was  like  the  music  of  a 
happy  bird.  Her  high  spirits  were  infectious — her  light- 
hearted  gaiety  communicated  itself  to  everybody.    The  men 


60  THE   CHRISTIAN. 

who  might  not  dance  with  her  were  smiling  at  the  mere 
sight  of  the  sunshine  in  her  face,  and  it  was  even  whispered 
about  that  the  President  of  the  College  of  Surgeons,  who 
opened  the  ball,  had  said  that  her  proper  place  was  not  there 
— a  girl  like  that  young  Irish  nuree  would  do  honour  to  a 
higher  assembly. 

In  that  enchanted  world  of  music  and  light  and  bright 
and  happy  faces  Glory  lost  all  sense  of  time  ;  but  two  hours 
had  passed  when  Polly  Love,  whose  eyes  had  turned  again 
and  again  to  the  door,  tugged  at  her  sleeve  and  whispered  : 
"  They've  come  at  last !  There  they  are — there — directly 
opposite  to  us.  Keep  your  next  dance,  dear.  They'll  come 
across  presently." 

Glory  looked  wJiere  Polly  had  directed,  and,  seeing 
again  the  face  she  had  seen  in  the  window  of  the  Foreign 
Office,  something  remote  and  elusive  once  more  stirred 
in  her  memory.  But  it  was  gone  in  a  moment,  and  she  was 
back  in  that  world  of  wonders,  when  a  voice  which  she  knew 
and  yet  did  not  know,  like  a  voice  that  called  to  her  as  she 
was  awakening  out  of  a  sleep,  said  : 

"  Glory,  don't  you  remember  me  ?  Have  you  forgotten 
me.  Glory  ? " 

It  was  her  friend  of  the  catechism  class — her  companion 
of  the  adventure  in  the  boat.  Their  hands  met  in  a  long 
hand-clasp  with  the  gallop  of  feeling  that  is  too  swift  for 
thought. 

"  Ah,  I  thought  you  would  recognise  me  !  How  delight- 
ful ! "  said  Drake. 

'■  And  you  knew  me  again  ? "  said  Glory. 

"  Instantly— at  first  sight  almost." 

"  Really  !  It's  sti^ange,  though.  Such  a  long,  long 
time — ten  years  at  least !  I  must  have  changed  since 
then." 

"  Yoix  have,"  said  Drake;  "you've  changed  very  much." 

"  Indeed  now  !  Am  I  really  so  much  changed  for  all  ? 
I've  grown  older,  of  course." 

"  Oh,  terribly  older,"  said  Drake. 

"  How  wrong  of  me  !  But  you  have  clianged  a  good 
deal,  too.     You  were  only  a  boy  in  jackets  then." 

"  And  you  were  only  a  girl  in  short  frocks." 


THE   OUTER   WORLD.  ^  61 

They  both  laughed,  and  then  Drake  said,  "  I'm  so  glad 
•weVe  changed  together  !  " 

"  Are  you  ?  "  said  Glory. 

"  Why,  yes,"  said  Drake  ;  "  for  if  you  had  changed  and  I 
hadn't " 

"  But  what  nonsense  we're  talking  I "  said  Glory  ;  and 
they  both  laughed  again. 

Then  they  told  each  other  what  had  happened  in  that 
infinite  cycle  of  time  which  had  spun  round  since  they 
parted.  Glory  had  not  much  to  narrate  ;  her  life  had  been 
empty.  She  had  been  in  the  Isle  of  Man  all  along,  had 
come  to  London  only  recently,  and  was  now  a  probationer- 
nurse  at  Martha's  Vineyard.  Drake  had  gone  to  Harrow 
and  thence  to  Oxford,  and,  being  a  man  of  artistic  leanings, 
had  wished  to  take  up  music,  but  his  father  had  seen  no 
career  in  it;  so  he  had  submitted — he  had  entered  the  sub- 
terranean catacombs  of  public  life,  and  was  secretary  to  one 
of  the  Ministers.  All  this  he  talked  of  lightly,  as  became  a 
3^oung  man  of  the  world  to  whom  great  things  were  of 
small  account. 

"  Glory,"  said  Polly,  at  her  elbow,  "  the  waltz  is  going  to 
begin." 

The  band  was  preluding.  Drake  claimed  the  dance,  and 
Glory  was  astonished  to  find  that  she  had  it  free  (she  had 
kept  it  expressly). 

When  the  waltz  was  over  he  gave  her  his  arm  and  led 
her  into  the  circular  corridor  to  talk  and  to  cool.  His  man- 
ners wei'e  perfect,  and  his  voice,  so  soft  and  yet  so  manly, 
increased  the  charm.  In  passing  out  of  the  hot  dancing 
room  she  threw  her  handkerchief  over  her  head,  and,  with 
the  hand  that  was  at  liberty,  held  its  ends  under  her  chin. 
She  wished  him  to  look  at  her  and  see  what  change  this  had 
made ;  so  she  said,  quite  innocently  : 

"  And  now  let  me  look  at  you  again,  sir  ! " 

He  recognised  the  dark-brown  spot  on  her  eye,  and  he 
could  feel  her  arm  through  ler  thin  print  dress. 

"  You've  told  me  a  good  deal,"  he  said,  "  but  you 
haven't  said  a  syllable  about  the  most  important  thing  of 
all." 

"  And  pray  v.'hat  is  that  ? ''  said  she. 


62  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

"  How  many  times  have  you  fallen  in  love  since  I  saw 
you  last  ? " 

"  Good  gracious,  what  a  question  !  "  said  Glory. 

His  audacity  was  delightful.  There  was  something  so 
gracious  and  yet  so  masterful  about  him. 

"  Do  you  remember  the  day  you  carried  me  off — eloped 
with  me,  you  know  ? "  said  Drake. 

"  I  ?  How  charming  of  me  !  But  when  was  that,  I 
wonder  ?  "  said  Glory. 

"  Never  mind  ;  say,  do  you  remember  ?  " 

"  Well,  if  I  do  ?  What  a  pair  of  little  geese  we  must 
have  been  in  those  days  !  " 

"  I'm  not  so  sure  of  that — now,"  said  he. 

"  You  didn't  seem  very  keen  about  me  then,  as  far  as  I 
can  remember,"  said  she. 

"  Didn't  I  ?  "  said  he.  "  What  a  silly  young  fool  I  must 
have  been  ! " 

They  laughed  again.  She  could  not  keep  her  arm  still, 
and  he  could  almost  feel  its  dimpled  elbow. 

"  And  do  you  remember  the  gentleman  who  rescued 
us  ? "  she  said. 

"  You  mean  the  tall,  dark  young  man  who  kept  hugging 
and  kissing  you  in  the  yacht  ?  " 

"  Did  he  ? " 

"  Do  you  forget  that  kind  of  thing,  then  ?  " 

"It  was  very  sweet  of  him.  But  he's  in  the  Church 
now,  and  the  chaplain  of  our  hospital." 

"  What  a  funny  little  romantic  world  it  is,  to  be  sure  ! " 

"  Yes  ;  it's  like  poetry,  isn't  it  ? "  she  ansvv'ered. 

Lord  Robert  came  up  to  introduce  Drake  to  Polly  (who 
was  not  looking  her  sweetest),  and  he  claimed  Glory  for  the 
next  dance. 

"  So  you  knew  my  friend  Drake  before  ? "  said  Lord 
Eobei't. 

"I  knew  him  when  he  was  a  boy,"  said  Glory. 

And  then  he  began  to  sin^-  his  friend's  pi*aises — how  he 
had  taken  a  brilliant  degree  at  Oxford,  and  was  now  private 
secretary  to  the  Home  Secretary,  and  would  go  into  public 
life  before  long;  how  he  could  paint  and  act,  and  might 
have  made  a  reputation  as  a  musician  ;  how  he  went  into 


THE  OUTER  WORLD.  63 

the  best  houses,  and  was  a  first-rate  official ;  how,  in  short, 
he  had  the  pi'omised  land  before  him.  and  was  just  on  the 
eve  of  entering  it. 

"  Then  I  suppose  you  know  he  is  rich — enormously 
rich  ?  "  said  Loi'd  Robert. 

"  Is  he  ? "  said  Glory,  and  something  great  and  grand 
seemed  to  shimmer  a  long  way  off. 

"  Enormously,"  said  Sii  Robert ;  "  and  yet  a  man  of  the 
most  democratic  opinions." 

"  Really  ?  "  said  Glory. 

"  Yes,"  said  Lord  Robert ;  "  and  all  the  way  down  in  the 
hansom  he  has  been  trying  to  show  me  how  impossible  it  is 
for  him  to  marry  a  lady." 

"  Now  why  did  you  tell  me  that  I  wonder  ? "  said 
Glory,  and  Lord  Robert  began  to  fidget  with  his  eye- 
glass. 

Drake  returned  with  Polly.  He  proposed  that  they 
should  take  the  air  in  the  quadrangle,  and  they  went  off  for 
that  purpose,  the  girls  arm-in-arm  some  paces  ahead. 

"There's  a  dash  of  Satan  himself  in  that  red-headed 
girl,"  said  Lord  Robert.  "  She  understands  a  man  before  he 
understands  himself." 

"  She's  as  natural  as  Nature,"  said  Drake.  "  And  what 
lips — what  a  mouth  ! " 

"  Irish,  isn't  she  ?  Oh,  Manx !  What's  Manx,  I  won- 
der ? " 

The  night  was  very  warm  and  close,  and  there  was 
hardly  more  air  in  the  courtyard.  The  sound  of  the  band 
came  to  them  there,  and  Glory,  who  had  danced  with  nearly 
everybody  within,  must  needs  dance  by  herself  without,  be- 
cause the  music  was  more  sweet  and  subdued  out  there,  and 
dancing  in  the  darkness  was  like  a  dream. 

"  Come  and  sit  down  on  the  seat,  Glory,"  said  Polly  fret- 
fully ;  "you  are  getting  on  my  nerves,  dear." 

"Glory,"  said  Drake,  "how  do  the  Londonei'S  strike 
you  ? " 

"  Much  like  other  mortals,"  said  Glory ;  "  no  better,  no 
worse — only  funnier." 

The  men  laughed  at  that  description,  and  Glory  pro- 
ceeded to  give  imitations  of  London  manners — the  high 


64  THE   CHRISTIAN. 

handshake,  the  "  Ha-ha  "  of  the  mumps,  the  mouthing  of  the 
canon,  and  the  mincing  of  Mr.  Golightly. 

Drake  bellowed  with  delight ;  Lord  Robert  drawled  out 
a  long  owlish  laugh  ;  Polly  Love  said  spitefully,  "  You 
might  give  us  your  friend,  the  new  curate,  next,  dearest," 
and  then  Glory  went  down  like  a  shot. 

"  Really,"  began  Drake,  "  it's  not  hospital  nvn'sing,  you 
know " 

But  there  were  low  murmurings  of  thunder  and  some 
large  splashes  of  rain,  and  they  returned  to  the  ballroom. 
The  doctors  and  the  matrons  were  gone  by  this  time ;  only 
the  nurses  and  the  students  remained,  and  the  fun  was  be- 
coming furious.  One  young  student  was  pulling  down  a 
girl's  hair,  and  another  was  waltzing  with  his  partner  car- 
ried bodily  in  his  arms.  Somebody  lowered  the  lights,  and 
they  danced  in  a  shadow-land  ;  somebody  began  to  sing,  and 
they  all  sang  in  chorus  ;  then  somebody  began  to  fling  about 
paper  bags  full  of  tiny  white  wafers,  and  the  bags  burst  in 
the  air  like  shells,  and  their  contents  fell  like  stars  from  a 
falling  rocket,  and  everybody  was  covered  as  with  flakes  of 
snow. 

Meantime  the  storm  had  broken,  and  above  the  clash  and 
clang  of  the  instruments  of  the  band  and  the  rhythmic 
shuffle  of  the  feet  of  the  dancers  and  the  clear,  joyous  notes 
of  their  happy  singing,  there  was  the  roar  of  the  thunder 
that  rolled  over  London,  and  the  rattle  of  the  rain  on  the 
glass  dome  overhead. 

Glory  was  in  ecstasies ;  it  was  like  a  mist  on  Peel  Bay  at 
night  with  the  moon  shining  through  it  and  the  waves 
dancing  to  a  northwest  breeze.  It  was  like  a  black  and 
stoi-my  sea  outside  Contrary,  with  the  gale  coming  down 
from  the  mountains.  And  yet  it  was  a  world  of  wonder  and 
enchantment  and  beauty,  and  bright  and  happy  faces. 

It  was  morning  when  the  ball  broke  up,  and  then  the 
rain  had  abated,  though  the  thunder  was  still  rumbling. 
The  men  were  to  see  the  girls  back  to  the  hospital,  and  Glory 
and  Drake  sat  in  a  hansom-cab  together. 

"So  you  always  foi-get  that  kind  of  thing,  do  you  ?"  he 
said. 

"  What  kind  of  thing  ? "  she  asked. 


THE   OUTER  WORLD.  65 

"  Never  mind  ;  you  know  ! " 

She  had  put  up  the  hood  of  her  outdoor  cape,  but  he 
could  still  see  the  gleam  of  her  golden  hair. 

■'  Give  me  that  rose,"  he  said  ;  "  the  white  one  that  you 
put  in  your  hair." 

"  It's  nothing,"  she  answered. 

"  Then  give  it  to  me.     I'll  keep  it  forever  and  ever." 

She  put  up  her  hand  to  her  head. 

"  Ah  !  how  sweet  of  you  !  And  what  a  lovely  little 
hand  !     But  no  ;  let  me  take  it  for  myself." 

He  reached  one  arm  around  her  shoulder,  put  his  hand 
under  her  chin,  tipped  up  her  face,  and  kissed  her  on  the 
lips. 

"  Darling ! "  he  whispered. 

Then  in  a  moment  she  awoke  from  her  world  of  wonder 
and  enchantment,  and  the  intoxication  of  the  evening  left 
her.  She  did  not  speak ;  her  head  dropped ;  she  felt  her 
cheeks  burn  red,  and  she  hid  her  face  in  her  hands.  There 
was  a  momentary  sense  of  dishonour,  almost  of  outrage. 
Drake  treated  her  lightly,  and  she  was  herself  to  blame. 

"  Forgive  me.  Glory  !  "  he  was  saying,  in  a  voice  tremu- 
lous and  intense.  "  It  shall  never  happen  again — never — so 
help  me  God  ! " 

The  day  was  dawning,  and  the  last  raindrops  were 
splashing  on  the  wet  and  empty  pavement.  The  great  city 
lay  asleep,  and  the  distant  thunder  was  rolling  away  from  it. 


XII. 

The  chaplain  of  Martha's  Vineyard  had  not  been  to  the 
hospital  ball.  Before  it  came  off  he  had  thought  of  it  a 
good  deal,  and  as  often  as  he  remembered  that  he  had  pro- 
tested to  Glory  against  the  company  of  Polly  Love  he  felt 
hot  and  ashamed.  Folly  was  shallow  and  frivolous,  and 
had  a  little  crab-apj)le  of  a  heart,  but  he  knew  no  harm  of 
her.  It  was  hardly  manly  to  make  a  dead  set  at  the  little 
thing  because  she  was  foolish  and  fond  of  dress,  and  be- 
cause she  knew  a  man  who  disjileased  him. 

Then  she  was  Glory's  only  companion,  and  to  protest 


GQ  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

against  Gloiy  going  in  her  company  was  to  protest  against 
G-lory  going  at  all.  That  seemed  a  selfish  thing  to  do.  Why 
should  he  deny  her  the  delights  of  the  ball  ?  He  could 
not  go  to  it  himself — he  would  not  if  he  could ;  but  girls 
liked  such  things — they  loved  to  dance,  and  to  be  looked  at 
and  admired,  and  have  men  about  them  paj'ing  court  and 
talking  nonsense. 

There  was  a  sting  in. that  thought,  too;  but  he  struggled 
to  be  magnanimous.  He  w^as  above  all  mean  and  unmanly 
feelings — he  would  withdraw  his  objection. 

He  did  not  withdraw  it.  Some  evil  spirit  whispered  in 
his  heart  that  Glory  was  drifting  away  from  him.  This  was 
the  time  to  see  for  certain  whether  she  had  passed  out  of  the 
range  of  his  influence.  If  she  respected  his  authority  she 
would  not  go.  If  she  went,  he  had  lost  his  hold  of  her,  and 
their  old  relations  were  at  an  end. 

On  the  night  of  the  ball  he  walked  over  to  the  hospital 
and  asked  for  her.  She  had  gone,  and  it  seemed  as  if  the 
earth  itself  had  given  way  beneath  his  feet. 

He  could  not  help  feeling  bitterly  about  Polly  Love,  and 
that  caused  him  to  remember  a  patient  to  whom  her  selfish 
little  heart  had  shown  no  kindness.  It  was  her  brother. 
He  was  some  nine  or  ten  years  older,  and  verj'  different  in 
character.  His  face  was  pale  and  thin — almost  ascetic — and 
he  had  the  fiery  and  watery  eyes  of  the  devotee.  He  had 
broken  a  blood-vessel  and  was  tlu*eatened  with  consumption, 
but  his  case  was  not  considered  dangerous.  When  Polly 
was  about,  his  eyes  would  follow  her  round  the  ward  with 
something  of  the  humble  entreaty  of  a  dog.  It  was  clear 
that  he  loved  his  sister,  and  was  constantly  thinking  of  her. 
But  she  hardly  ever  looked  in  his  direction,  and  when  she 
spoke  to  him  it  was  in  a  cold  or  fretful  voice. 

John  Storm  had  observed  this.  It  had  brought  him  close 
to  the  young  man,  and  the  starved  and  silent  heart  had 
opened  out  to  liim.  He  was  a  lay-brother  in  an  Anglican 
Brotherhood  that  was  settled  in  Bishopsgate  Street.  His 
monastic  name  was  Brother  Paul.  He  had  asked  to  be  sent 
to  that  hospital  because  his  sister  was  a  nurse  there.  She 
was  his  only  remaining  relative.  One  other  sister  he  had 
once  had,  but  she  was  gon6 — she  was  dead — she  died 


THE  OUTER  WORLD.  67 

But  that  was  a  sad  and  terrible  story  ;  he  did  not  like  to 
talk  of  it. 

To  this  broken  and  bankrupt  creature  John  Storm  found 
his  footsteps  turning  on  that  night  when  his  own  heart  lay 
waste.  But  on  entering  the  ward  he  saw  that  Brother  Paul 
had  a  visitor  already.  He  was  an  eldei^y  man  in  a  strange 
habit — a  black  cassock  which  buttoned  close  at  the  neck  and 
fell  nearly  to  his  feet,  and  was  girded  about  the  waist  by  a 
black  rope  that  had  three  great  knots  at  its  suspended  ends. 
And  the  habit  was  not  more  different  from  the  habit  of  the 
world  than  the  face  of  the  wearer  was  unlike  the  worldly 
face.  It  was  a  face  full  of  spirituality,  a  face  that  seemed  to 
invest  everything  it  looked  upon  with  a  holy  peace — a  beauti- 
ful face,  without  guile  or  craft  or  passion,  yet  not  without 
the  signs  of  internal  strife  at  the  temples  and  under  the 
eyes ;  but  the  battles  with  self  had  all  been  fought  and  won. 

As  John  Storm  stepped  up,  the  old  man  rose  from  his 
chair  by  the  patient's  bed. 

"  This  is  the  Father  Superior,  sir,"  said  Brother  Paul. 

"  IVe  just  been  hearing  of  you,"  said  the  Father  in  a 
gentle  voice.     "  You  have  been  good  to  my  poor  brother." 

John  Storm  answered  with  some  commonplace — it  had 
been  a  pleasure,  a  happiness  ;  the  brother  would  soon  leave 
them ;  they  would  all  miss  him — perhaps  himself  espe- 
cially. 

The  Father  resumed  his  chair  and  listened  with  an  ear- 
nest smile.  "  I  understand  you,  dear  friend,"  he  said.  "  It  is 
so  much  more  blessed  to  give  than  to  receive  !  Ah,  if  the 
poor  blind  world  only  knew  !  How  it  fights  for  its  pleas- 
ures that  perish,  and  its  pride  of  life  that  passes  away  !  Yet 
to  succour  a  weaker  brother,  or  protect  a  fallen  woman,  or 
feed  a  little  child  will  bring  a  greater  joy  than  to  conquer 
all  the  kingdoms  of  the  earth." 

John  Storm  sat  down  on  the  end  of  the  bed.  Something 
had  gone  out  to  him  in  a  moment,  and  he  was  held  as  by  a 
spell.  The  Father  talked  of  the  love  of  the  world — how 
strange  it  was,  how  difficult  to  understand,  hoAV  tragic,  how 
pitiful !  The  lusts  of  the  flesh,  the  lusts  of  the  eye — how 
mean,  how  delusive,  how  treacherous  !  To  think  of  the  peo- 
■'^le  of  that  mighty  city  day"  by  day  and  night  by  night  mak' 


68  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

ing  themselves  miserable  in  order  that  they  might  make 
themselves  merry  ;  to  think  of  the  children  of  men  scouring 
the  globe  for  its  paltry  possessions,  that  could  not  add  one 
inch  to  the  stature  of  the  soul,  while  all  the  time  the  em- 
pire of  peace  and  joy  and  happiness  lay  here  at  hand,  here 
within  ourselves,  here  in  the  little  narrow  compass  of  the 
human  heart  I  To  give,  not  to  get,  that  was  the  great  bles- 
sedness, and  to  give  of  yourself,  of  your  heart's  love,  was 
the  greatest  blessedness  of  all. 

John  Storm  was  stiri'ed.  "The  Church,  sir,"  he  said, 
"  the  Church  itself  has  to  learn  that  lesson." 

And  then  he  spoke  of  the  hopes  with  which  he  had  come 
up  to  London,  and  how  they  were  being  broken  down  and 
destroyed  ;  of  his  dreams  of  the  Cluu'ch  and  its  mission,  and 
how  they  w^ere  dying  or  dead  already. 

"  What  liars  we  are,  sir !  How  we  colour  things  to  justify 
ourselves !  Look  at  our  sacraments — are  they  a  lie,  or  are 
they  a  sacrilege  ?  Look  at  our  charities — are  we  Pharisees 
or  are  we  hypocrites  ?  And  our  clergy,  sir — our  fashionable 
clergy  !  Surely  some  tremendous  upheaval  will  shak-e  to  its 
foundations  the  Church  wherein  such  things  are  possible — 
a  Church  that  is  more  worldly  than  the  world  I  And  then 
the  woman-life  of  the  Church,  see  how  it  is  thrown  awaj". 
That  sweetest  and  tenderest  and  holiest  power,  how  it  goes 
to  waste  under  the  eye  and  with  the  sanction  of  the  Church 
in  the  frivolities  of  fashion — -in  di-awing-rooms,  in  gai'dens, 
in  bazars,  in  theatres,  in  balls " 

He  stopped.  His  last  word  had  arrested  him.  Had  he 
been  thinking  only  of  himself  and  of  Glory  ?  His  head  fell 
and  he  covered  his  face  with  his  hand. 

"  You  are  right,  my  son,"  said  the  Father  quietly,  "  and 

yet  you  are  wrong,  too.     The  Church  of  God  will  not  be 

shaken  to  its    foundations   because  of  the  Pharisees   who 

stand  in  its  public  places,  or  because  of  the  publicans  who 

.,  haunt  its  purlieus.     Though  the  axe  be  laid  to  the  rotten 

"  tree,  yet  the  little  seed  will  save  its  kind  alive." 

Then  with  an  earnest  smile  and  in  a  gentle  voice  he 
spoke  of  their  little  brotherhood  in  Bisliopsgate  Street;  how 
ten  years  ago  they  had  founded  it  for  detacliment  from 
earthly  cares  and  earthly  aims,  and  for  hiddenness  will 


THE   OUTER  WORLD.  69 

God  ;  how  they  had  established  it  in  the  midst  of  the  world's 
busiest  highway,  in  the  heart  of  the  world's  greatest  market, 
to  show  that  they  despised  gold  and  silver  and  all  that  the 
blind  and  cheated  world  most  prizes,  just  as  St.  Philip  and 
St.  Ignatius  had  established  the  severest  of  modern  rules  in 
a  profane  and  self-indulgent  century,  to  show  that  they 
could  stam])  out  eveiy  suggestion  of  the  flesh  as  a  spark 
from  the  fu*es  of  hell. 

And  then  he  lifted  his  cord  and  pointed  to  the  knots  at 
the  end  of  it,  and  told  what  they  were — symbols  of  the 
three  bonds  by  which  he  was  bound — the  three  vows  he  had 
taken  :  the  vow  of  ]3overty,  because  Christ  chose  it  for  him- 
self and  his  friends  ;  the  vow  of  obedience,  because  he  had 
said,  "  He  that  heareth  you  heareth  Me  "  ;  and  the  vow  of 
chastity,  because  it  was  our  duty  to  guard  the  gates  of  the 
senses,  and  to  keep  our  eyes  and  ears  and  tongue  from  all 
inordinateness. 

"  But  the  lawful  love  of  home  and  kindred,''  said  John  ; 
"  what  of  that  ?  " 

"  We  convert  it  into  what  is  spiritual,"  said  the  Father. 
"  All  human  love  must  be  based  on  the  love  of  God  if  it  is 
to  be  firm  and  true  and  enduring,  and  the  reason  of  so  much 
failure  of  love  in  natural  friendship  is  that  the  love  of  the 
creature  is  not  built  upon  the  love  of  the  Creator." 

"  But  the  love — say  of  motlier  and  son — of  brother  and 
sister  ? " 

"  Ah,  we  have  placed  ourselves  above  the  ordinary  con- 
ditions of  life  that  none  may  claim  our  affections  in  the 
same  way  as  Christ.  Man  has  to  contend  with  two  sets  of 
enemies — those  from  within  and  those  from  without ;  and 
no  temptations  are  more  subtle  than  those  which  come  in 
the  name  of  our  holiest  aflfections.  But  the  sword  of  the 
spirit  must  keep  the  tempter  away.  Thei-e  is  the  Judas  in 
all  of  us,  and  he  will  betray  us  Vv^ith  a  kiss  if  he  can." 

John  Storm's  breast  was  heaving.  He  could  scarcely 
conceal  his  agitation  ;  but  the  Father  had  risen  to  go. 

"  It  is  eight  o'clock,  and  I  must  be  back  to  Compline," 
'  i  said.  And  then  he  laughed  and  added  :  "  We  never  ride 
■  cabs ;  but  I  must  needs  walk  across  the  park  to-night,  for 
!    lave  given  away  all  my  money." 


70  "•  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

At  that  the  smile  of  an  angel  came  into  his  old  face,  and 
ke  said,  with  a  sweet  simplicity  : 

"  I  love  the  park.  Every  morning  the  children  play 
there,  and  then  it  is  the  holy  Catholic  Church  to  me,  and  I 
like  to  walk  in  it  and  to  lay  my  hands  on  the  heads  of  the 
little  ones,  and  to  ask  a  blessing  for  them,  and  to  empty  my- 
self. This  morning  as  I  was  coming  here  I  met  a  little  boy 
carrying  a  bundle.  '  And  what  is  your  name,  my  little  man  ? ' 
I  said,  and  he  told  me  what  it  was.  'And  how  old  are 
you  ? '  I  asked.  '  Twelve  years,'  he  answered.  '  And  what 
have  you  got  in  your  bundle  ? '  '  Father's  dinner,  sir.'  he 
said.  '  And  what  is  your  father,  -my  .son  ? '  'A  cai'i^enter,' 
said  the  boy.  And  I  thought  if  I  had  been  li\'ing  in  Pales- 
tine nineteen  hundred  years  ago  I  might  have  met  another 
little  Boy  carrying  the  dinner  of  his  father,  who  was  also  a 
carpenter,  in  a  little  bundle  which  Mary  had  made  up  for 
him.  So  I  felt  in  my  pocket,  and  all  I  had  was  my  fare 
home  again,  and  I  gave  it  to  the  little  man  as  a  thank-offer- 
ing to  God  that  he  had  suffered  me  to  meet  a  sweet  boy  of 
twelve  whose  father  was  a  carpenter.'' 

John  Storm's  eyes  were  dim  with  tears. 

"  Good-bye,  Brother.Paul,  and  God  send  you  back  to  us 
soon !— Good-bye  to  you,  dear  friend  ;  and  when  the  world 
deals  harshly  with  you  come  to  us  for  a  few  days  in  Retreat, 
that  in  the  silence  of  your  soul  you  may  forget  its  vanities 
and  vexations  and  fix  your  thoughts  aboye." 

John  Storm  could  not  resist  the  impulse — he  dropped  to 
his  knees  at  the  Father's  feet. 

"Bless  me  also,  Father,  as  you  blessed  the  carpenter's 
boy." 

The  Father  raised  two  fingers  of  his  right  hand  and 
said : 

"  God  bless  you,  my  son,  and  be  with  you  and  strengthen 
you,  and  when  he  smiles  on  you  may  the  frown  of  man 
affect  you  not !— Father  in  heaven,  look  down  on  this  fiery 
soul  and  succour  liim  !  Help  him  to  cast  off  every  anchor 
that  holds  him  to  tlie  world,  and  make  him  as  a  voice  crying 
in  the  wilderness,  'Come  out  of  her,  my  people,  saith  o  ; 
God.'  " 

When  John  rose  from  liis  knees  the  saintly  face  w  -^ 


THE  OUTER  WORLD.  71 

gone,  and  all  the  air  seemed  to  be  filled  with  a  heavenly 
calm. 

While  he  had  been  kneeling  for  tlie  Father's  blessing  he 
had  been  aware  of  a  step  on  the  floor  behind  him.  It  was 
his  fellow-curate,  the  Reverend  Golightly,  who  was  still 
waiting  to  deliver  his  message. 

The  canon  had  been  disappointed  in  one  of  his  preachers 
for  Sunday,  and  being  himself  engaged  to  preside  over  the 
annual  dinner  of  a  dramatic  benevolent  fund  to  be  held  on 
the  Saturday  niglit,  and  therefore  incapable  of  extra  prepa- 
I'ation,  he  desired  that  Mr.  Storm  should  take  the  sermon  on 
Sunday  morning. 

John  promised  to  do  so ;  and  then  his  fellow-curate 
smiled,  bowed,  coughed,  and  left  him.  A  small  room  was 
kept  for  the  chaplain  on  the  ground  floor  of  the  hospital, 
and  he  went  down  to  it  and  wrote  a  letter. 

It  was  to  the  parson  at  Peel. 

"  No  doubt  you  hear  from  Glory  frequently,  and  know 
all  about  her  progress  as  a  probationer.  She  seems  to  be 
very  well,  and  cei'tainly  I  have  never  seen  her  look  so  bright 
and  so  cheerful.  At  the  moment  of  writing  she  is  out  at 
a  ball  given  by  some  of  the  hospital  authorities.  Well,  it 
is  a  perfectly  harmless  source  of  pleasure,  and  with  all  my 
heart  I  hope  she  is  enjoying  herself.  No  doubt  some  form 
of  amusement  is  necessary  to  a  young  girl  in  the  height  of 
her  youth  and  health  and  beauty,  and  he  would  be  only  a 
poor  sapless  man  who  could  not  take  delight  in  the  thought 
that  a  good  girl  was  happy.  Her  fellow-nm'ses,  too,  are 
noble  and  devoted  women,  doing  true  woman's  work,  and  if 
there  are  some  black  sheep  among  them,  that  is  no  more 
than  might  be  expected  of  the  purest  profession  in  the 
world. 

"As  for  myself,  I  have  tried  to  carry  out  my  undertaking 
to  look  after  Glory,  but  I  can  not  say  how  long  I  may  be 
able  to  continue  the  task.  Do  not  be  surprised  if  I  am  com- 
pelled to  give  it  up.  You  k2iow  I  am  dissatisfied  with  my 
present  surroundings,  and  I  am  only  waiting  for  the  ruling 
and  direction  of  the  pillar  of  cloud  and  fire.  God  alone  can 
tell  how  it  will  move,  but  God  will  guide  me.  I  don't  go 
out  more  than  I  can  help,  and  when  I  do  go  I  get  humili- 


72  THE   CHRISTIAN. 

ated  and  feel  foolish.  The  life  of  London  has  been  a  great 
and  painful  surprise.  I  had  supposed  that  I  knew  all  about 
it,  but  I  have  really  known  nothing-  until  now.  Its  cruelty, 
its  deceit,  and  its  treachei-y  are  terrible.  London  is  the 
Judas  that  is  forever  betraying  with  a  kiss  the  young,  the 
hopeful,  the  innocent.  However,  it  helps  one  to  know  one's 
self,  and  that  is  better  than  lying  wrapped  in  cotton  wool. 
Give  my  kindest  greetings  to  everybody  at  Glenfaba — my 
love  to  my  father,  too,  if  there  are  any  means  of  convey- 
ing it." 

The  letter  took  him  long  to  write,  and  when  it  was  "v\Tit- 
ten  he  went  out  into  the  hall  to  post  it.  There  he  saw  that 
a  thunderstorm  was  coming,  and  he  concluded  to  remain 
until  it  had  passed  over.  He  stepped  into  the  library  and 
selected  a  book,  and  returned  to  his  room  to  read  it.  The 
book  was  St.  John  Chrysostom  on  the  Priesthood,  and  the 
subject  was  congenial,  but  he  could  not  keep  his  mind  on 
the  printed  page.  He  thought  of  the  Father  Superior,  of  the 
little  brotherhood  in  Bishopsgate,  and  then  of  Glory  at  the 
hospital  ball,  and  again  of  Glory,  and  yet  again  and  again 
of  Glory.  Do  what  he  would,  he  could  not  help  but  think 
of  her. 

The  storm  pealed  over  his  head,  and  when  he  returned  to 
the  hall  two  hours  later  it  was  still  far  from  spent.  He 
stood  at  the  open  door  and  watched  it.  Forks  of  lightning 
lit  up  the  park,  and  floods  of  black  rain  made  the  vacant 
pavements  like  the  surface  of  the  sea.  A  tinkling  cab  slid 
past  at  intervals,  with  its  driver  sheeted  in  oilskins,  and  now 
and  then  there  was  an  omnibus,  full  within  and  empty  with- 
out. Only  one  other  living  thing  was  to  be  seen  anywhere. 
An  Italian  organ-man  had  stationed  himself  in  front  of  a 
mansion  to  the  left  and  was  playing  vigorously. 

Jolin  Storm  walked  through  the  hospital.  It  was  now 
late,  and  the  house  was  quiet.  The  house-doctor  had  made 
the  last  of  his  I'ounds  and  turned  into  his  chambers  across 
the  courtyard,  and  the  niglit-nurses  were  boiling  little  kettles 
in  their  rooms  between  the  wards.  The  surgical  wards  were 
darkened,  and  the  patients  were  asleep  already.  In  the 
medical'  wards  there  were  screens  about  certain  of  the  beds, 
and  weary  moans  came  from  behind  them. 


THE  OUTER  WORLD.  73 

It  was  after  midnight  when  John  Storm  came  round  to 
the  hall  again,  and  then  the  rain  had  ceased,  hut  the  thunder 
was  still  rumhling.  He  might  have  gone  home  at  length, 
but  he  did  not  go ;  he  realized  that  he  was  waiting  for  Glory. 
Other  nurses  returned  from  the  ball,  and  bowed  to  him  and 
passed  into  the  house.  He  stepped  into  the  porter's  lodge, 
and  sat  down  and  watched  the  lightning.  It  began  to  be 
terrible  to  him,  because  it  seemed  to  be  symbolical.  What 
doom  or  what  disaster  did  this  storm  typify  and  predict  ? 
Never  could  he  forget  the  night  on  which  it  befell.  It  was 
the  night  of  the  Nurses'  Ball. 

He  thought  he  must  have  slept,  for  he  shook  himself  and 
thought :  "  What  nonsense  !  Surely  the  soul  leaves  the  body 
while  we  are  asleep,  and  only  the  animal  remains  !  " 

It  was  now  almost  daylight,  and  two  hansom-cabs  had 
stopped  before  the  portico,  and  several  persons  who  were 
coming  up  the  steps  were  chattering  away  like  wakened 
linnets.     One  voice  was  saying  : 

"  Ml*.  Drake  proposes  that  we  should  all  go  to  the  theatre, 
and  if  we  can  get  a  late  pass  I  should  like  it  above  every- 
thing."    It  was  Glory,  and  a  fretful  voice  answered  her  : 

"  Very  well,  if  you  say  so.  It's  all  the  same  to  ?ne."  It 
was  Polly  ;  and  then  a  man's  voice  said  : 

"What  night  shall  it  be,  then,  Eobert  ? " 

And  a  second  naan's  voice  answered,  with  a  drawl,  "  Bet- 
ter let  the  girls  choose  for  themselves,  don't  you  know." 

John  Storm  felt  his  hands  and  feet  grow  cold,  and  he 
stepped  out  into  the  porch.  Glory  saw  him  coming  and 
made  a  faint  cry  of  recognition. 

"  Ah,  here  is  Mr.  Storm !  Mr.  Storm,  you  should  know 
Mr.  Drake.     He  was  in  the  Isle  of  Man,  you  remember " 

"  I  do  not  remember,"  said  John  Storm. 

"  But  you  saved  his  life,  and  you  ought  to  know  him " 

"  I  do  not  know  him,"  said  John  Storm. 

She  was  beginning  to  say,  "  Let  me  introduce "     But 

she  stopped  and  stood  silent  for  a  moment,  while  the  strange 
light  came'  into  her  gleaming  eyes  of  something  no  word 
could  express,  and  then  she  burst  into  noisy  laughter. 

A  superintendent  Sister  going  through  the  hall  at  the  mo- 
ment drew  up  and  said,  "  Nurse,  I  am  surprised  at  you  !  Go 
G 


74  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

to  your  rooms  this  instant !  "  and  the  girls  whispered  their 
adieus  and  went  off  giggling. 

"  What  a  glorious  night  it  has  been  I "  said  Glory,  going 
upstairs. 

"  I'm  glad  you  think  so,"  said  Polly.  "  To  tell  you  the 
truth,  I  found  it  dreadfully  tiresome." 

The  two  men  lit  their  cigarettes  and  got  back  into  one  of 
the  hansoms  and  drove  away. 

"  What  a  bear  that  man  is  ! "  said  Lord  Robert. 

'*  Rude  enough,  certainly,"  said  Drake ;  "  but  I  liked  his 
face  for  all  that ;  and  if  the  Fates  jmt  it  into  his  head  to 
stand  between  me  and  death — well,  I'm  not  going  to  for- 
get it." 

'"Give  him  a  wide  bei*tli,  dear  boy.  The  fellow  is  an 
actor— an  affected  fop.  I  met  him  at  Mrs.  Macrae's  on  Thurs- 
day. He  is  a  religious  actor  and  a  poseur.  He'll  do  some- 
thing one  of  these  days,  take  my  word  for  it." 

And  meanwhile  John  Storm  had  buttoned  his  long  coat 
up  to  his  throat  and  was  striding  home  through  the  echoing 
streets,  with  both  hands  clinched  and  his  teeth  set  hard. 


XIII. 

"  Martha's. 

"  Oh,  Lord-a-massy  !  Oh,  Gough  bless  me  sowl !  Oh,  my 
beloved  grandfather  !  John  Storm  has  done  for  himself  at 
last !  That  man  was  never  an  author  of  peace  and  a  lover  of 
concord  ;  but,  my  gracious,  if  you  had  heard  his  sermon  in 
church  on  Sunday  morning !  Being  a  holy  and  liumble 
woman  of  heart  myself,  I  altered  the  Litany  the  smallest 
taste  possible,  and  muttered  away  from  beginning  to  end, 
'  O  Lord,  close  thou  our  lips  ' ;  but  the  Loi'd  didn't  heed  me 
in  the  least,  with  the  result  that  everybody  on  earth  is  now 
screaming  and  snarling  at  our  poor  Mr.  Storm  exactly  as  if 
he  had  been  ])i(!king  the  pockets  of  the  universe. 

"It  was  all  about  the  morality  of  men.  The  text  was  as 
innocent  as  a  baby  :  '  Put  ye  on  the  Lord  Jesus  Christ,  and 
make  no  provision  for  the  flesh  to  fulfil  the  lusts  thereof.' 
And  when  he  began  in  the  usual  way,  the  dear  old  goodies 


THE   OUTER  WORLD.  75 

in  glasses  thought  he  had  been  wound  up  like  the  musical 
box  and  had  just  turned  on  the  crank,  so  they  cuddled  in 
comfortably  for  forty  winks  before  the  antliem.  There  were 
two  natures  in  man,  and  man's  body  might  be  good  or 
bad  according  as  spiritual  or  carnal  affections  swayed  it, 
and  all  the  rest  of  the  good  old  change-for-sixpence-aiid-a- 
ha'peuny-out,  you  know.  But  the  lesson  had  been  from 
Isaiah,  where  the  unreasonable  old  prophet  is  indignant 
with  the  ladies  of  Zion  because  they  don't  want  to  look  like 
dowdies,  you  remember :  '  Tremble,  ye  women  that  are  at 
ease,  strip  you  and  make  you  bare  and  gird  sackcloth  upon 
your  loins.'  And  off  he  went  like  a  comet,  with  the  fash- 
ionable woman  for  his  tail.  If  matrimony  nowadays  didn't 
always  mean  monogamy,  who  was  chiefly  to  blame  ?  Men 
were  generally  as  pure  as  women  required  that  they  should 
be ;  and  if  the  lives  of  men  were  bad  it  was  often  because 
women  did  not  demand  that  they  should  be  good.  Tremble, 
ye  women  that  are  at  ease,  and  say  why  you  allow  your 
daughters  to  marry  men  who  in  fact  and  effect  are  married 
already.  Strip  you,  and  be  ashamed  for  the  poor  women 
who  were  the  first  wives  of  your  daughters'  husbands,  and 
for  the  children  whom  such  men  abandon  and  forget !  In 
leading  your  innocent  daughters  to  courts  and  receptions 
you  are  only  leading  them  to  the  auction-room :  and  in 
dressing  and  decorating  them  you  are  preparing  them  for 
the  market  of  base  men.  Last  week  some  titled  philanthro- 
pist had  hauled  up  a  woman  in  the  East  End  of  London  for 
attempting  to  sell  her  daughter.  How  shocking  !  everybody 
said.  What  a  disgrace  to  the  nineteenth  century  !  But  the 
wretched  creature  had  only  been  doing  the  best  according  to 
her  light  for  the  welfare  of  her  miserable  child  ;  while  here — 
with  their  eyes  open,  with  their  cultured  consciences — the 
wives  of  these  same  philanthi'opists  were  doing  the  same 
thing  every  day — the  very  same  ! 

"  Having  gone  for  the  mammies  like  this,  he  went  for 
the  dear  girls  themselves  one  better.  Let  them  gird  sack- 
cloth on  their  loins  and  hide  their  faces.  Why  did  they 
suffer  themselves  to  be  sold  ?  The  woman  who  married  a 
man  for  the  sake  of  his  title  or  his  position  or  any  worldly 
advantasre  whatever  was  no  better  than  an  outcast  of  the 


76  THE   CHEISTIAN. 

streets.     Her  act  was  the  same,  and  in  all  reason  and  justice 
her  name  should  be  the  same  also. 

"  Hey,  nonny,  nonny !  I  told  you  how  he  broke  down 
before ;  but  on  Sunday  morning,  in  spite  of  mine  own 
amended  Litany,  I  had  just  as  much  hope  of  the  breakdown 
of  the  Falls  of  Niagara,  or  a  nineteen-feet  spring  tide.  You 
would  have  said  his  face  was  afire,  and  those  great  eyes  of 
his  were  lit  up  like  the  red  lamps  on  Peel  pier. 

"  Pulpit  oratory  !  I  don't  know  what  it  is,  only  I  never 
heard  the  like  of  it  in  all  my  born  days.  I  begin  to  think 
the  real  difference  between  preacher  s  is  the  difference  of 
the  fire  beneath  the  crust.  In  some  it  burns  so  low  that  it 
doesn't  even  warm  the  surface,  and  you  couldn't  get  up 
enough  puff  to  boil  the  kitchen  kettle  ;  but  in  others — look 
out !  It's  a  volcano,  and  the  lava  is  coming  down  with  a 
rush. 

"  Mercy  me,  how  I  cried !  '  Oh,  my  daughter,  oh,  my 
child,  what  a  ninny  you  are  ! '  I  told  myself ;  but  it  was  no 
use  talking.  His  voice  was  as  hoarse  as  a  raven's,  and 
sometimes  you  would  have  thought  his  very  heart  was 
breaking. 

.  "  But  tlie  congregation  !  You  should  have  seen  the  trans- 
formation scene !  They  had  come  in  bowing  and  smiling 
and  whispering  softly  until  the  church  was  a  perfect  sheet 
of  sunshine,  an  absolute  aurora  borealis ;  but  they  went  out 
like  a  northeast  gale,  with  mutterings  of  thunder  and  one 
man  overboard. 

"  And  John  Storm  having  put  his  foot  in  it,  of  course 
G?lory  Quayle  had  to  get  her  toe  in  too.  Coming  down  the 
aisle  some  of  the  dear  ladies  of  Zion,  who  looked  as  if  they 
wanted  to  'swear  in  their  wrath,'  were  mumbling  all  the 
lamentations  of  Jeremiah.  Who  was  he,  indeed,  to  talk  to 
people  like  that  ?  Nobody  had  ever  heard  of  him  except  his 
mother.  And  in  tlie  porch  thoy  came  upon  a  fat  old  dump 
in  a  velvet  dollman  wlio  declared  it  was  perfectly  scandalous, 
and  she  had  come  out  in  the  middle.  Whereupon  Glory, 
not  being  delivered  that  day  from  all  evil  and  mischief,  said, 
'  Quite  right,  ma'am,  and  you  were  not  the  only  one  who  had 
to  leave  the  church  in  the  middle  of  that  sermon.'  '  Why, 
who   else   had   to   go?'  said   this    female   Pharisee.     'The 


THE  OUTER  WORLD.  77 

devil,  ma'am ! '  said  Glory,  and  then  left  her  with  that  bone 
to  gnaw. 

"  It  tui^ns  out  that  the  old  girlie  in  the  dollman  is  a 
mighty  patron  of  this  hospital,  so  everybody  says  I  am  in 
for  nasty  weather.  But  hoot !  My  heart's  in  the  Hielan's, 
my  heart  is  not  here ;  my  heart's  in  the  Hielan's,  sae  what 
can  I  fear ! 

"John  Storm  is  in  for  it  too,  and  they  say  his  vicar 
■waited  for  him  in  the  vestry,  but  he  looked  like  forked 
lightning  coming  out  of  the  pulpit,  so  the  good  man  thought 
it  better  to  keep  his  rod  in  pickle  awhile.  It  seems  that  the 
Lords  of  the  Council  and  all  the  nobility  were  there,  and  it 
is  a  point  of  religious  etiquette  in  London  that  in  the  hang- 
man's house  nobody  speaks  of  the  rope ;  but  our  poor  John 
gave  them  the  gibbet  as  well.  It  was  a  fearful  thing  to  do, 
but  nobody  will  make  me  believe  he  had  not  got  his  rea- 
sons. He  hasn't  been  here  since,  but  I  am  certain  he  has 
his  eye  on  some  fine  folks,  and,  whoever  they  are,  I'll  bet 
'  my  bottom  dollar '  they  deserved  all  they  got. 

"  But  heigho !  I  haven't  left  myself  breath  to  tell  you 
about  the  ball.  I  was  there !  You  remember  I  was  lament- 
ing that  I  hadn't  got  the  necessary  finery.  In  fact,  I  had 
put  in  a  bit  at  the  end  of  my  prayers  about  it.  '  O  God, 
be  good  to  me  this  once  and  let  me  look  nice.'  And  he  was. 
He  put  it  into  the  heads  of  the  nabobs  of  this  vineyard  that 
nurses  should  '  appear  at  the  Nurses'  Ball  in  regulation  uni- 
form only.'  So  my  cloak  and  my  bonnet  and  my  gray 
dress  and  my  apron  covered  a  multitude  of  sins. 

"You  should  have  seen  Glory  that  niglit,  grandfathfer. 
She  was  a  redder  yoiing  lobster  than  ever  somehow,  but  she 
put  a  white  rose  in  her  carroty  curls,  and,  Gough  bless  me, 
what  a  bogh  *  she  was,  though !  Of  course,  she  made  the 
acquaintance  of  the  '  higher  ranks  of  society,'  and  danced 
with  all  the  earth.  The  great  surgeon  of  something  opened 
the  ball  with  the  matron  of  Bartimaeus's,  and  she  went 
round  on  his  arm  like  a  dolly  in  a  dolly-tub ;  but  he  soon 
saw  what  a  marvellous  and  miraculous  being  Glory  was, 
and  after  I  had  waltzed   so  beautifully  with  the  ancient 

•     *  Dear. 


78  THE   CHRISTIAN. 

personage  I  had  the  hearts  of  all  the  young  men  flying 
round  at  the  hem  of  my  white  petticoat — it  was  a  nice  new- 
one  for  the  occasion. 

"  But  the  strangest  thing  was  that  somebody  from  the 
Isle  of  Man  flopped  down  on  me  there  just  as  if  he  had 
descended  from  the  blue.  It  was  that  little  English  boy 
Drake,  who  used  to  come  to  the  catechism  class,  only  now 
he  is  one  of  the  smartest  and  handsomest  young  men  in 
London.  When  he  came  up  and  announced  himself  I  am 
sure  he  expected  me  to  expire  on  the  spot  or  else  go  crazy, 
and  of  coui'se  I  was  trembling  all  over,  but  I  behaved  like  a 
rational  person  and  stood  my  ground.  He  looked  at  me  as 
mvich  as  to  say,  '  Do  you  know  you've  grown  to  be  a  very 
fine  young  woman,  and  I  admire  you  very  much  ? '  Where- 
upon I  looked  back  as  much  as  to  reply,  '  That's  quite  right, 
my  dear  young  sir,  and  I  should  have  a  poor  opinion  of  you 
if  you  didn't.'  So,  being  of  the  same  opinion  on  the  only 
subject  worth  thinking  about  (that's  me),  I  behaved  charm- 
ingly to  him,  and  even  forgave  him  when  he  carried  off  my 
white  rose  at  the  end. 

"  Mr.  Drake  has  a  friend  who  is  always  with  him.  He 
is  a  willowy  person  who  owns  sixteen  setters  and  three 
church  livings,  they  say,  and  wears  (on  week  days)  a  thun- 
der-and-lightning  suit  of  clothes — you  know,  a  pattern  so 
large  that  one  man  can't  carry  the  whole  of  it  and  some- 
body else  goes  about  with  the  rest.  His  name  is  Lord  Robert 
Ure,  and  I  intend  to  call  him  Lord  Bob,  for,  since  he  is 
such  a  frivolous  person  himself,  I  must  make  a  point  of 
being  severe.  I  danced  with  him,  of  course,  and  he  kept 
telling  me  what  a  wonderful  future  Mr.  Drake  had,  and 
how  the  Promised  Land  was  before  him,  and  even  hinting 
that  it  wouldn't  be  a  bad  thing  to  be  Mrs.  Joshua.  Fancy 
Glory  making  a  tremendous  match  with  a  leader  of  society  ! 
And  if  I  hadn't  gone  to  that  hospital  ball  no  doubt  the  his- 
tory of  the  nineteenth  century  wovxld  have  been  different ! 

"  Tliey  are  going  to  take  me  next  week  to  something  far, 
far  better  than  a  ball,  only  I  must  not  tell  you  anything 
about  it  yet,  except  that  I  keep  awake  all  night  sometimes 
to  think  of  it.  But  thou  sure  and  firmest  earth,  hear  not 
my  steps  which  way  they  walk  I 


THE  OUTER  WORLD.  79 

"  It's  late,  and  I'm  just  going  to  cuddle  in.  Good-night ! 
My  kisses  for  the  aunties,  and  my  love  to  everybody  !  In 
fact,  you  can  serve  out  my  love  in  ladles  this  time — being 
cheap  at  present,  and  plenty  more  where  this  is  coming 
from. 

"  Oh,  I  forgot  to  tell  you  what  happened  when  we  re- 
turned to  the  hospital !  It  was  shockingly  late,  and  the 
gentlemen  had  brought  us  back,  but  tliere  was  our  John 
Storm  with  his  sad  and  anxious  face  waiting  up  to  see  us 
safely  home.  He  was  angry  with  me,  and  I  didn't  mind 
that  in  the  least ;  but  when  I  saw  that  he  liked  me  well 
enough  to  be  rude  to  the  gentlemen  I  fell  a  victim  to  the 
crafts  and  assaults  of  the  devil,  and  couldn't  help  laughing 
out  loud  ;  and  then  Ward  Sister  Allworthy  came  along  and 
lifted  her  lip  and  showed  me  her  tusk. 

"  It  was  a  wonderful  night  altogether,  and  I  was  never 
so  happy  in  my  life,  but  all  the  same  I  had  a  good  cry  to 
myself  alone  before  going  to  bed.  Too  much  water  hadst 
thou,  poor  Ophelia  I  Talk  about  two  natures  in  one ;  I've 
got  two  hundred  and  fifty,  and  they  all  want  to  do  different 
things !  Ah  me  !  the  '  ould  Book '  says  that  woman  was 
taken  out  of  the  rib  of  a  man,  and  I  feel  sometimes  as  if  I 
want  to  get  back  to  my  old  quarters.  Glory. 

"  P.  S. — I'll  -WTite  you  a  full  and  particular  account  of 
the  great  event  of  next  week  after  it  is  over.  Be  innocent 
of  the  knowledge,  dearest  chuck,  till  thou  applaud  the  deed. 
You  se^  I  don't  want  you  to  eat  your  meal  in  fear — or  your 
porridge  either.  But  I  am  burning  with  impatience  for  the 
night  to  come,  and  would  like  to  run  to  it.  Oh,  if  it  were 
done,  when  'tis  done,  then  'twere  well  it  were  done  quickly ! 
See  ?    I  am  going  in  for  a  course  of  Shakespeare ! " 


XIV. 

A  WEEK  later  Glory  made  her  first  visit  to  the  theatre. 
Her  companions  were  Drake,  who  was  charmed  with  her 
naivete ;  Lord  Robert,  \\ho  was  amused  by  it ;  and  Polly 
Love,  who  was  annoyed  and  ashamed,  and  uttered  little 
peevish  exclamations. 


80  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

As  they  entered  the  box  which  they  were  to  occupy,  the 
attendant  drew  back  the  curtain,  and  at  sight  of  the  audi- 
torium she  cried,  "  Oh  !  "  and  tlien  checked  herself  and  col- 
oured deeply.  With  her  eyes  down  she  sat  where  directed 
in  one  of  the  three  seats  in  front,  Polly  being  on  her  right 
and  Drake  on  her  left,  and  Lord  Robert  at  the  back  of  the 
lace  curtain.  For  some  minutes  she  did  not  smile  or  stir, 
and  when  she  spoke  it  was  always  in  whispers.  A  great 
awe  seemed  to  have  fallen  upon  her,  and  she  was  behaving 
as  she  behaved  in  church. 

Drake  began  to  explain  the  features  of  the  theatre. 
Down  there  were  the  stalls,  and  behind  the  stalls  was  the 
pit.  The  body  ?  Well,  yes — the  body,  so  to  speak.  And 
the  three  galleries  were  the  dress  circle,  the  family  circle, 
and  the  gallery  proper.  The  organ  loft  ?  No,  there  was  no 
organ,  but  that  emjity  place  below  was  the  well  for  the 
orchestra. 

"  And  what  is  this  little  vestry  ? "  she  said. 

"  Oh,  this  is  a  private  box  where  we  can  sit  by  ourselves 
and  talk  ! ''  said  Drake. 

At  every  other  explanation  she  had  made  little  whispered 
cries  of  astonishment  and  delight ;  but  when  she  heard  that 
conversation  was  not  forbidden  she  was  entirely  happy. 
She  thought  a  theatre  was  even  more  beautiful  than  a 
church,  and  supposed  an  actor  must  have  a  wonderful 
living. 

The  house  was  filling  rapidly,  and  as  the  people  entered 
she  watched  them  intently. 

"  What  a  beautiful  congi-egation !  "  she  whispered — "  audi- 
ence, I  mean ! " 

"Do  you  think  so  ? "  said  Polly  ;  but  Glory  did  not  hear 
her. 

It  was  delightful  to  see  so  many  lovely  faces  and  listen 
to  the  low  hum  of  their  conversation.  She  felt  hapjiy 
among  them  already  and  quite  kind  to  everj'body,  because 
they  had  all  come  together  to  enjoy  themselves.  Presently 
she  bowed  to  some  one  in  the  stall  with  a  face  all  smiles,  and 
then  said  to  Polly  : 

"  How  nice  of  her !  A  lady  moved  to  me  fnjni  the  body. 
How  friendly  they  are  in  theatres  !  " 


THE  OUTER  WORLD.  81 

"  But  it  was  to  Mr.  Drake,"  said  Polly ;  and  then  Glory 
could  have  buried  her  face  in  her  confusion. 

"Never  mind,  Glory,"  said  Drake;  "that's  a  lady  who 
will  like  you  the  better  for  the  little  mistake. — Rosa,"  he 
added,  with  a  look  toward  Lord  Robert,  who  smoothed  his 
mustache  and  bent  his  head. 

Polly  glanced  up  quickly  at  the  mention  of  the  name ; 
and  Drake  exjjlained  that  Rosa  was  a  friend  of  his  own— a 
lady  journalist.  Miss  Rosa  Macquarrie,  a  good  and  clever 
woman.     Then,  turning  back  to  Glory,  he  said  : 

"  She  has  been  standing  up  for  your  friend  Mr.  Storm 
this  Aveek.  You  know  there  have  been  attacks  upon  him  in 
the  newspapers  ? " 

"  Has  she  ? "  said  Glory,  recovering  herself  and  looking 
down  again.     "  Which  pew— stall,  I  mean " 

But  the  people  were  clapping  their  hands  and  turning 
their  faces  to  the  opposite  side  of  the  theatre.  Some  great 
personage  was  entering  the  royal  box. 

"  My  chief,  the  Home  Secretary,"  said  Drake  ;  and,  when 
the  applause  had  subsided  and  the  party  were  seated,  the 
great  man  recognised  his  secretary  and  bowed  to  him ; 
whereupon  it  seemed  to  Glory  that  every  face  in  the  theatre 
turned  about  and  looked  at  her. 

She  did  not  flinch,  but  bore  herself  bravely.  There  was 
a  certain  thrill  and  a  slight  twitching  of  the  head,  such  as  a 
charger  makes  at  the  first  volley  in  battle — nothing  more, 
not  even  the  quiver  of  an  eyelid.  This  was  the  atmosphere 
in  which  Drake  lived,  and  she  felt  a  vague  gratitude  to  him 
for  allowing  her  to  move  in  it. 

"  Isn't  it  beautiful ! "  she  whispered,  turiiing  toward 
Polly ;  but  Polly's  face  was  hidden  behind  the  cur- 
tain. 

The  orchestra  was  coming  in,  and  Glory  leaned  forward 
and  counted  the  fiddles,  while  Drake  talked  with  Lord  Rob- 
ert across  her  shoulder. 

"  I  found  liim  reading  Rosa's  article  this  morning,  and  it 
seems  he  was  present  himself  and  heard  the  sermon,"  said 
Drake. 

"  And  what's  his  opinion  ? "  asked  Lord  Robert. 

"  Much  the  same  as  your  own.    Affectation — the  man  is 


82  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

suffering  from  the  desire  to  be  original — more  egotism  than 
love  of  truth,  and  so  forth."    * 

"  Right,  too,  dear  boy.  All  this  vapouring  is  as  much  as 
to  say  : '  Look  at  me  !  I  am  the  Hon.  and  Rev.  Mr.  Thingamy, 
nephew  of  the  Prime  Minister  ;  and  yet '  " 

"I  don't  at  all  agree  with  the  chief,"  said  Drake,  "and  I 
told  him  so.  The  man  has  enthusiasm,  and  that's  the  very 
salt  of  the  eai'th  at  present.  We  are  all  such  pessimists  in 
these  days  !  Thank  God  for  anybody  who  will  warm  us  up 
with  a  little  faith,  say  I !  " 

Glory's  bosom  heaved,  and  slie  was  just  about  to  speak, 
when  there  was  a  sudden  clap  as  of  thunder,  and  she  leaped 
up  in  her  seat.  But  it  was  only  the  beginning  of  the  over- 
ture, and  she  sat  down  laughing.  There  was  a  tender  pas- 
sage in  the  music  ;  and  after  it  was  over  she  was  very  quiet 
for  a  while,  and  then  whispered  to  Polly  that  she  hoped 
little  Johnnie  wasn't  worse  to-night,  and  it  seemed  wicked 
to  enjoy  one's  self  when  any  one  was  so  poorly. 

"  Who  is  tliat  ?  "  said  Drake. 

"  My  little  boy  whose  leg  was  amputated,"  said  Glory. 

"  This  Glory  is  so  funny  !  "  said  Polly.  "  Fancy  talking 
of  that  here  ! '' 

"Hush  !"  said  Lord  Robert ;  "the  curtain  is  going  up.*' 
And  at  the  next  moment  Glory  was  laughing  because  they 
were  all  in  the  dark. 

The  play  was  Much  Ado  about  Nothing,  and  Glory  ' 
whispered  to  Drake  that  she  had  never  seen  it  before,  but  | 
she  had  read  Macbeth,  and  knew  all  about  Shakespeare  and 
the  drama.  The  first  scene  took  her  breath  away,  being  so 
large  and  so  splendid.  It  represented  the  outside  of  a  gen- 
tleman's house,  and  she  thought  what  a  length  of  time  it 
must  have  taken  to  build  it,  considering  it  was  to  last  only 
a  single  night.  But  hush  !  The  people  were  going  indoors. 
No ;  they  preferred  to  talk  in  the  street.  Oh,  we  were  in 
Italy  ?    Yes,  indeed,  that  was  different. 

Leonato  delivered  his  first  s])ceches  forcibly,  and  was 
rewarded  witli  applause.  Gloi-y  cla])i)ed  her  hands  ahso,  and 
said  he  was  a  very  good  actor  for  such  a  very  old  gentleman, 

Then  Beatrice  made  her  entrance,  and  was  greeted  wi 
cheei-s,  whereupon  Glory  looked  perplexed. 


THE  OUTEE  WORLD.  S3 

"  It's  Terry,"  whispered  Polly ;  and  Drake  said,  "  Ellen 
Terry  "  ;  but  Glory  still  looked  puzzled. 

"  They  are  calling-  her  '  Beatrice.'  "  she  said.  Then,  mas- 
tering the  situation,  she  looked  wise  and  said  :  "  Of  couse — 
the  actress — I  quite  understand  ;  but  why  do  they  applaud 
hei" — she  has  done  nothing-  yet  ? '' 

Drake  explained  that  the  lady  playing  Beatrice  was  a 
great  favourite,  and  that  the  applause  of  the  audience  had 
been  of  the  nature  of  a  welcome  to  a  welcome  guest,  as 
much  as  to  say  they  had  liked  her  before,  and  were  glad  to 
see  her  again.  Glory  thought  that  was  beautiful,  and,  look- 
ing at  the  gleaming  eyes  that  shone  out  of  the  darkness,  she 
said : 

"  How  lovely  to  be  an  actress  !  " 

Then  she  turned  back  to  the  stage,  where  all  was  bright 
and  brilliant,  and  said,  "What  a  lovely  frock,  too  !" 

"Only  a  stage  costume,  my  dear,"  said  Polly. 

"  And  what  beautiful  diamonds  ! " 

"  Paste,"  said  Lord  Robert. 

"Hush!"  said  Drake;  and  then  Benedick  entered,  and 
the  audience  received  him  with  gi'eat  cheering.  "  Irving," 
whispered  Drake ;  and  Glory  looked  more  perplexed  than 
before  and  said  : 

"But  you  told  me  it  was  Mr.  Irving's  theatre,  and  I 
thought  it  would  have  been  his  place  to  welcome " 

The  vision  of  Benedick  clapping  his  hands  at  his  own 
entrance  set  Lord  Robert  laughing  in  his  cold  way ;  but 
Drake  said,  "  Be  quiet,  Robert !  " 

Glory,  like  a  child,  had  ears  for  no  conversation  except 
her  own,  and  she  was  immersed  in  the  play  in  a  moment. 
The  merry  war  of  Beatrice  and  Benedick  had  begun,  and  as 
she  watched  it  her  face  grew  gi'ave. 

"  Now,  that's  very  foolish  of  her,"  she  said ;  "  and  if,  as 
you  say,  she's  a  great  actress,  she  shouldn't  do  such  things. 
To  talk  like  that  to  a  man  is  to  let  everybody  see  that  she 
likes  him  better  than  anybody  else,  though  she's  trying  her 
best  to  hide  it.     The  silly  girl — he'll  find  her  out  I  " 

But  the  curtain  had  gone  down  on  the  first  act,  the  lights 
had  suddenly  gone  up,  and  her  companions  wei'e  laughing 
at  her.    Tlien  she  laughed  also. 


84  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

"  Of  course,  it's  only  a  play,"  she  said  largely,  "  and  I 
know  all  about  plays  and  about  acting,  and  I  can  act  my- 
self, too." 

"I'm  sure  you  can,"  said  Polly,  lifting  her  lip.  But 
Glory  took  no  notice. 

Throughout  the  second  act  she  put  on  the  same  airs  of 
knowledge,  watching  the  masked  ball  intently,  but  never 
once  uttering  a  laugh  and  hardly  ever  smiling.  The  light, 
the  colour,  the  dresses,  the  gay  young  faces  enchanted  her ; 
but  she  struggled  to  console  herself.  It  was  only  her  body 
that  was  up  there,  leaning  over  the  front  of  the  box  with 
lips  twitching  and  eyes  gleaming  ;  her  soul  was  down  on  the 
stage,  clad  in  a  lovely  gown,  and  carrying  a  mask  and 
laughing  and  joking  with  Benedick  ;  but  she  held  herself 
in,  and  when  the  curtain  fell  she  began  to  talk  of  the 
acting. 

She  was  still  of  the  opinion  that  Leonato  was  excellent 
for  such  an  elderly  gentleman,  and  when  Polly  praised 
Claudio  she  agreed  that  he  was  good  too. 

"  But  Benedick  is  my  boy  for  all,"  she  said.  In  some 
way  she  had  identified  herself  with  Beatrice,  and  hardly 
ever  spoke  of  her. 

During  the  third  act  this  air  of  wisdom  and  learning 
broke  down  badly.  In  the  middle  of  the  ballad,  "  Sigh  no 
more,  ladies,  sigh  no  more,"  she  remembered  Johnnie,  and 
whispered  to  Drake  how  ill  he  had  been  when  they  left  the 
hospital.  And  when  it  was  over,  and  Benedick  protested 
that  the  song  had  been  vilely  sung,  she  sat  back  in  her 
seat  and  said  she  didn't  know  how  Mr.  Irving  could  say 
such  a  thing,  for  she  was  sure  the  boy  had  sung  it  beauti- 
fully. 

"  But  that's  the  author,"  whispered  Drake  ;  and  then  she 
said  wisely  : 

"  Oil,  yes,  I  know — Shakespeare,  of  course." 

Then  came  tlic  liming  of  the  two  love-birds,  and  she  de- 
clared that  everybody  was  in  love  in  plays  of  that  sort,  and 
that  was  why  slie  liked  them  ;  but  as  for  those  people  play- 
ing the  trick,  they  were  very  simple  if  they  thought  Beatrice 
didn't  know  she  loved  Benedick.  Claudio  fell  woefully  in 
her  esteem  in  otlier  respects  also,  and  wben  he  agreed  to  s)iy 


THE   OUTER  WORLD.  85 

on  Hero  she  said  he  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  himself  any- 
how. 

"  How  ridiculous  you  are  ! ''  said  Polly.  "  It's  the  author, 
isn't  it?" 

"  Then  the  author  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  himself,  also, 
for  it  is  unjust  and  cruel  and  unnecessary,"  said  Glory. 

The  curtain  had  come  down  again  by  this  time,  and  the 
men  were  deep  in  an  argument  about  morality  in  art,  Lord 
Robert  protesting  that  art  had  no  morality,  and  Drake  main- 
taining that  what  Glory  said  was  right,  and  there  was  no 
getting  to  the  back  of  it. 

But  the  fourth  act  witnessed  Glory's  final  vanquishment. 
When  she  found  the  scene  was  the  inside  of  a  church  and 
they  were  to  be  present  at  a  wedding,  she  could  not  keep 
still  on  her  seat  for  delight ;  but  when  the  marriage  was 
stopped  and  Claudio  uttered  his  denunciation  of  Hero,  she 
said  it  was  just  like  him,  and  it  would  serve  him  right  if 
nobody  believed  him. 

"  Hush  !  "  said  somebody  near  them. 

"  But  they  are  believing  him,"  said  Glory  quite  audibly. 

"  Hush  !     Hush  !  "  came  from  many  parts  of  the  theatre. 

"Well,    that's    shameful — her    father,    too "    began 

Glory. 

"  Hush,  Glory  !  "  whispered  Drake  ;  but  she  had  risen  to 
her  feet,  and  when  Hero  fainted  and  fell  she  uttered  a  cry. 

"  What  a  girl !  "  whispei-ed  Polly.  "  Sit  down — every- 
body's looking ! " 

"  It's  only  a  play,  you  know,"  whispered  Drake ;  and 
Glory  sat  down  and  said  : 

"  Well,  yes ;  of  course,  it's  only  a  play.  Did  you  sup- 
pose  " 

But  she  was  lost  in  a  moment.  Beatrice  and  Benedick 
were  alone  in  the  church  now ;  and  when  Beatrice  said, 
'■  Kill  Claudio,"  Glory  leaped  up  again  and  clapped  her 
hands.  But  Benedick  would  not  kill  Claudio,  and  it  was 
the  last  straw  of  all.  That  wasn't  what  she  called  being  a 
great  actor,  and  it  was  shameful  to  sit  and  listen  to  such 
plays.  Lots  of  disgraceful  scenes  happened  in  life,  but 
people  didn't  come  to  the  theatre  to  see  such  things,  and 
she  would  go. 


8f5  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

"How  ridiculous  you  are!"  said  Polly;  but  Glory  was 
out  in  the  corridor,  and  Drake  was  going  after  her. 

She  came  back  at  the  beginning  of  the  fifth  act  with  red 
eyes  and  confused  smiles,  looking  very  much  ashamed. 
From  that  moment  onward  she  cried  a  good  deal,  but  gave 
no  other  sign  until  the  green  curtain  came  down  at  the  end, 
when  she  said  : 

"  It's  a  wonderful  thing !  To  make  people  forget  it's  not 
true  is  the  most  wonderful  thing  in  the  world  ! " 

Lord  Robert,  standing  behind  the  curtain  at  the  back  of 
Polly's  chair,  had  been  laughing  at  Griory  with  his  long 
owlish  drawl,  and  making  cynical  interjections  by  way  of 
punctuating  her  enthusiasm ;  and  now  he  said,  "  "Would 
you  like  to  have  a  nearer  view  of  your  wonderful  world, 
Glory  ? " 

Glory  looked  perplexed,  and  Drake  muttered,  "  Hold  your 
tongue,  Robert ! "  Then,  turning  to  Glory,  he  said  shortly  : 
"  He  only  asked  if  you  would  like  to  go  behind  the  scenes ; 
but  I  don't  think " 

Glory  uttered  a  cry  of  delight.  "  Like  it  ?  Better  than 
anything  in  the  world  !  " 

"  Then  I  must  take  you  to  a  rehearsal  somewhere,"  said 
Lord  Robert ;  "  and  you'll  both  come  to  tea  at  the  chambers 
afterward." 

Drake  made  some  show  of  dissent ;  but  Polly,  with  her 
most  volujituous  look  upward,  said  it  would  be  perfectly 
churming,  and  Glory  was  in  ra^^tures. 

The  girls,  by  their  own  choice,  went  home  without  escort 
by  the  Hammersmith  omnibus.  They  sat  on  opposite  sides 
and  hardly  talked  at  all.  Polly  was  huDiniing  idly,  "  Sigh 
no  more,  ladies." 

Glory  was  in  a  trance.  A  great,  bright,  beautiful  worUl 
had  that  night  swum  into  her  view,  and  all  her  heart  was 
yearning  for  it  with  vague  and  blind  asinrations.  It  might 
be  a  world  of  dreams,  but  it  seemed  more  real  than  reality, 
and  when  the  omnibus  passed  the  corner  of  Piccadilly  Cir- 
cus she  forgot  to  look  at  the  women  wlio  were  crowding  the 
pavement. 

The  omnibus  drew  up  for  them  at  the  door  of  the  hos- 
pital, and  they  took  long  bi-eaths  as  they  went  up  the  steps. 


THE   OUTER  WORLD.  87 

In  the  corridor  to  the  surgical  ward  they  came  upon 
John  Storm.  His  head  was  down  and  his  step  was  long 
and  measui'ed,  and  he  seemed  to  be  trying  to  pass  them  in 
his  grave  silence  ;  but  Glory  stopped  and  spoke,  while  Polly 
went  on  to  her  cubicle. 

"  You  here  so  late  ?  "  she  said. 

He  looked  steadily  into  her  face  and  answered,  "I  was 
sent  for — some  one  was  dying." 

"  Was  it  little  Johnnie  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

There  was  not  a  tear  now,  not  a  quiver  of  an  eyelid. 

"I  don't  think  I  care  for  this  life,"  she  said  fretfully. 
"Death  is  always  about  you  everywhere,  and  a  girl  can 
aever  go  out  to  enjoy  herself  but " 

"It  is  true  woman's  work,"  said  John  hotly,  "the  truest, 
noblest  work  a  woman  can  have  in  all  the  world  ! " 

"Perhaps,"  said  Glory,  swinging  on  her  heel.  "All  the 
same " 

"  Good-night ! "  said  John,  and  he  turned  on  his  heel 
also. 

She  looked  after  him  and  laughed.  Then  with  a  little 
hard  lunjp  at  her  heart  she  took  herself  oft'  to  bed. 

Polly  Love,  in  the  next  cubicle,  was  humming  as  she  un- 
dressed : 

Sigh  no  more,  ladies,  sigh  no  more, 
]\Ien  were  deceivers  ever. 

That  night  Glory  dreamed  that  she  was  back  at  Peel. 
She  was  sitting  up  on  the  Peel  hill,  watching  the  big  ships 
as  they  weighed  anchor  in  the  bay  beyond  the  old  dead 
castle  walls,  and  wishing  she  were  going  out  with  them  to 
the  sea  and  the  great  cities  so  far  away. 


XV. 

John  Storm  was  sitting  in  his  room  next  morning  fum- 
bling the  leaves  of  a  book  and  trying  to  read,  when  a  lady 
was  announced.  It  was  Miss  Macrae,  and  she  came  in  with 
a  flushed  face,  a  quivering  lip,  and  the  marks  of  tears  in 


88  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

her  eyes.  She  held  his  hand  with  the  same  long  hand-clasp 
as  before,  and  said  in  a  tremulous  voice  : 

"  I  am  ashamed  of  coming,  and  mother  does  not  know 
that  I  am  here  ;  but  I  am  veiy  unhappy,  and  if  you  can  not 
help  me " 

"Please  sit  down,"  said  John  Storm. 

"  I  have  come  to  tell  you "  she  said,  and  then  her  sad 

eyes  moved  about  the  room  and  came  back  to  his  face.  "  It 
is  about  Lord  Robert  Ure,  and  I  am  very  wretched." 

"  Tell  me  everything,  dear  lady,  and  if  there  is  anything 
I  can  do " 

She  told  him  all.  It  was  a  miserable  story.  Her  mother 
had  engaged  her  to  Lord  Robert  Ure  (there  was  no  other 
way  of  putting  it)  for  the  sake  of  his  title,  and  he  had  en- 
gaged himself  to  her  for  the  sake  of  her  wealth.  She  had 
never  loved  him,  and  had  long  known  that  he  was  a  man 
of  scandalous  reputation ;  but  she  had  been  taught  that  to 
attach  weight  to  such  considerations  would  be  girlish  and 
sentimental,  and  she  had  fought  for  a  while  and  then 
yielded. 

"  You  will  reproach  me  for  my  feebleness,"  she  said,  and 
lie  answered  haltingly : 

"  No,  I  do  not  reproach  you — I  pity  you  !  " 

"  Well,"  she  said,  "  it  is  all  over  now,  and  if  I  am  ruined, 
and  if  my  mother " 

"  You  have  told  her  you  can  not  marry  him  ! " 

"Yes." 

"  Then  who  am  I  to  reproach  you  ?  "  he  said  ;  and  rising 
to  his  feet,  he  threw  down  liis  book. 

Her  dark  eyes  wandered  about  the  room,  and  came  back 
to  his  face  again  and  shone  witli  a  new  lustre. 

"  I  heard  your  sermon  on  Sunday,  Mr.  Storm,  and  I 
felt  as  if  there  were  nobody  else  in  the  il.'r  !i,  .Mid 
you  were  speaking  to  me  alone.  And  last  ni..Tlit  at  the 
theatre " 

"  Well  ? " 

He  liad  been  tramping  the  room,  but  he  stopped. 

"I  saw  him  in  a  box  witli  his  friend  and  two — two 
ladies." 

"Were  they  nurses  from  the  liospital  ?  " 


THE  OUTER  WORLD.  89 

She  made  a  cry  of  surjjrise  and  said,  "  Then  you  know 
all  about  it,  and  the  sermon  was  meant  for  me  ? " 

He  did  not  speak  for  a  moment,  and  then  he  said  with  a 
thick  utterance : 

"You  wish  me  to  help  you  to  break  off  this  marriage,  and 
I  will  try.  But  if  I  fail — no  matter  what  has  happened  in 
the  past,  or  what  awaits  you  in  the  future " 

"  Oh,"  she  said,  "  if  I  had  your  strength  beside  me  I 
should  be  brave — I  should  be  afraid  of  nothing." 

"  Good-bye,  dear  lady,"  said  John  Storm  ;  and  before  -he 
could  prevent  her  she  had  stooped  over  his  hand  and 
kissed  it. 

John  Storm  had  retui-ned  to  his  book  and  was  clutching 
it  with  nervous  fingers,  when  his  fellow-curate  came  with  a 
message  from  the  canon  to  request  his  presence  in  the  study. 

"  Tell  him  I  was  on  the  point  of  going  down,"  said  John, 
and  the  Eeverend  Golightly  coughed  and  bowed  himself 
out. 

The  canon  had  also  had  a  visitor  that  morning.  It  was 
Mrs.  Macrae  herself.  She  sat  on  a  chair  covered  Avith  a  tiger 
skin,  sniffed  at  her  scented  handkerchief,  and  poured  out  all 
her  sorrows. 

Mercy  had  rebelled  against  her  authority,  and  it  was  en- 
tirely the  fault  of  the  new  curate,  Mr.  Storm.  She  had 
actually  refused  to  carry  out  her  engagement  with  Lord 
Robert,  and  it  all  came  of  that  dreadful  sermon  on  Sunday. 
It  was  dishonourable,  it  was  unprincijiled,  and  it  was  a 
pretty  thing  to  teach  girls  to  indulge  their  whims  with- 
out regard  to  the  wishes  of  parents  ! 

"  Here  have  I  been  two  years  in  London,  spending  a  for- 
tune on  the  girl  and  trying  to  do  my  best  for  her,  and  the 
moment  I  fix  her  in  one  of  the  first  English  families,  this 

young  man — this  curate — this Upon  my  honour,  it's 

real  wicked,  it's  shameful !  "  And  the  handkerchief  steeped 
in  perfume  went  up  from  the  nose  to  the  eyes. 

The  canon  swung  his  pince-nez.  "Don't  put  yourself 
about,  my  dear  Mrs.  Macrae.  Leave  the  matter  to  me.  Miss 
Macrae  will  give  up  her  objections,  and -" 

"Oh,  you  mustn't  judge  her  by  her  quietness,  canon. 
You  don't  know  her  character.  She's  real  stubborn  when 
7 


90  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

her  mind's  made  up.     But  I'll  be  as  stubborn  as  she  is— 
I'll  take  her  back  to  America— I'll  never  spend  another 

penny " 

"  And  as  for  Mr.  Storm,"  continued  the  canon,  "  I'll  make 
everything  smooth  in  that  quarter.  You  mustn't  think  too 
much  about  tlie  unhappy  sermon— a  little  youthful  esjyrit 
fort — we  all  go  through  it,  you  know." 

When  Mrs.  Macrae  had  gone,  he  rang  twice  for  Mr.  Go- 
lightly  and  said,  "  Tell  Mr.  Storm  to  come  down  to  me  im- 
mediately." 

"With  pleasure,  sir,"  said  the  little  man;  and  then  he 
hesitated. 

"  What  is  it  ? "  said  the  canon,  adjusting  his  glasses. 
"  I  have  never  told  you,  sir,  how  I  found  him  the  night 
you  sent  me  to  the  hospital." 
"Well,  how?" 

"  On  his  knees  to  a  Catholic  priest  who  was  visiting 
a  patient." 

The  canon's  glasses  fell  from  his  eyes  and  his  broad  face 
broke  into  strange  smiles. 

"  I  thought  the  Sorceress  of  Rome  was  at  the  bottom  of 
it,"  he  said.  "  His  uncle  shall  know  of  this,  and  unless  I 
am  sadly  deceived — but  fetch  him  down." 

John  Storm  was  wearing  his  flannel  shirt  that  morning, 
and  he  came  downstairs  with  a  heavy  tread  and  swung  him- 
self, unasked,  into  the  chair  that  had  just  before  been  occu- 
pied by  Mrs.  Macrae. 

The  lierpendicular  wrinkles  came  between  the  canon's 
eyebrows  and  he  said :  "  My  dear  Mr.  Storm,  I  have  post- 
poned as  long  as  possible  a  most  painful  interview.  The  fact 
is,  your  i*ecent  sermon  has  given  the  gi'eatest  offence  to  the 
ladies  of  my  congregation,  and  if  such  teaching  were  per- 
sisted in  we  should  lose  our  best  jieople.  Now,  I  don't  want 
to  be  angry  with  you,  quite  the  contrary,  but  I  wisli  to  put 
it  to  you,  as  your  spiritual  head  and  adviser,  that  your  idea 
of  religion  is  by  no  means  agreeable  to  the  needs  and  neces- 
sities of  the  nineteenth  century.  There  is  no  freedom  in 
such  a  faith,  and  St.  Paul  says,  'Where  the  Spirit  of  the 
Lord  is,  tliere  is  liberty.'  But  the  theorj'  of  your  religion  is 
not  more  unscriptural  than  its  application  is  unwholesome. 


THE   OUTER  WORLD.  91 

Yours  is  a  gloomy  faith,  my  dear  Storm,  and  what  did 
Luther  say  of  a  gloomy  faith  ? — that  the  devil  was  very  apt 
to  be  lurking  behind  it.  As  for  himself  he  married,  you 
may  remember ;  he  had  children,  he  played  chess,  he  loved 
to  see  young  people  dancing " 

"I  don't  object  to  the  dancing,  sir,"  said  John  Storm. 
"I  only  object  to  the  tune." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ? "  said  the  canon,  not  without  inso- 
lence, and  the  perpendicular  wrinkles  became  large  and 
heavy. 

"I  mean,  sir,"  said  John  Storm,  "that  half  the  young 
people  nowadays — the  young  women  in  the  west  of  London 
especially — are  asked  to  dance  to  the  Dead  March." 

And  then  he  spoke  of  the  infamous  case  of  Mercy 
Macrae,  how  she  Avas  being  bought  and  sold,  and  how 
scandalous  was  the  reputation  of  the  man  she  was  required 
to  raarry. 

"  That  was  what  I  was  coming  down  to  speak  about,  sir — 
to  ask  you  to  save  this  innocent  girl  from  such  a  mockery 
of  holy  wedlock.  She  is  not  a  child,  and  the  law  can  not 
help  her,  but  you  can  do  so,  because  the  power  of  the  Church 
is  at  your  back.  You  have  only  to  set  your  face  against 
this  infamy,  and  say " 

"  My  dear  Mr.  Storm,"  the  canon  was  smiling  condescend- 
ingly and  swinging  his  glasses,  "  the  business  of  the  Church 
is  to  solemnize  marriages,  not  to  make  them.  But  if  the 
young  lady  comes  to  me  I  will  say :  '  My  dear  young  lady, 
the  conditions  you  complain  of  are  more  common  than  you 
suppose ;  put  aside  all  foolish,  romantic  notions,  make  a 
nest  for  yourself  as  comfortably  as  you  can,  and  come  back 
in  a  year  to  thank  me.'  " 

John  Storm  was  on  his  feet ;  the  blood  was  mounting  to 
his  face  and  tingling  in  his  fingers. 

"  And  so  these  men  are  to  make  their  wives  of  the  daugh- 
ters of  the  poor  first,  and  then  ask  the  Church  to  solemnize 
their  polygamy " 

But  the  canon  had  lifted  his  hand  to  silence  hira. 

"  My  dear  young  friend,  a  policy  like  yours  would  deci- 
mate the  House  of  Commons  and  abolish  the  House  of  Lords, 
practical  religion  has  a  sweet  reasonableness.     We  are  all 


92  THE   CHRISTIAN. 

human,  even  if  we  are  all  gentlemen  ;  and  while  silly  young 
things " 

But  John  Storm  was  out  in  the  hall  and  putting  on  his 
hat  to  see  Glory. 

Glory  had  not  yet  awakened  from  her  trance.  While 
others  were  living  in  to-day  she  was  still  going  ahout  in 
yesterday.  The  emotion  of  the  theatre  was  upon  her,  and 
the  world  of  reality  took  the  tone  and  colour  of  drama. 
This  made  her  a  tender  woman,  but  a  bad  nurse. 

She  began  the  day  in  the  Outpatient  Department,  and  a 
poor  woman  came  with  a  child  that  had  bitten  its  tongue. 
Its  condition  required  that  it  should  remain  in  the  house  a  day 
or  two.  "  Let  me  put  the  pore  thing  to  bed  ;  she's  alius  used 
to  me,"  said  the  woman  piteously.  "Are  you  the  mother?  " 
said  the  Sister.  "No,  the  grandmother."  "The  mother  is 
the  only  person  who  can  enter  the  wards  except  on  visiting 
day."  The  poor  woman  began  to  cry.  Glory  had  to  carry 
the  child  to  bed,  and  she  whispered  to  the  grandmother, 
"Come  this  way,"  and  the  woman  followed  her.  When 
they  came  to  the  surgical  ward,  she  said  to  the  nurse  in 
charge,  "  This  is  the  child's  mother,  and  she  has  come  to 
put  the  poor  little  thing  to  bed." 

Later  in  the  morning  she  was  sent  up  to  help  in  the  same 
ward.  A  patient  in  great  pain  called  to  her  and  said, 
"  Loosen  this  bandage  for  me,  nurse  ;  it  is  killing  me  ! "  And 
she  loosened  it. 

But  the  glamour  of  the  theatre  was  upon  her  as  well  as 
its  sentiment  and  emotion,  and  in  the  space  before  the  bed 
of  one  of  the  patients,  at  a  moment  when  the  ward  Sister 
was  away,  she  began  to  make  imitations  of  Beatrice  and 
Benedick  and  the  singer  of  "  Sigh  no  more,  ladies."  The 
patient  was  Koenig,  the  choirmaster  of  "All  Saints',"  a  little 
fat  German  with  long  mustaches,  whicli  he  waxed  and 
curled  as  he  lay  in  bod.  Glory  had  christened  him  "the 
hippojiotamus,"  and  at  her  mimicry  he  laughed  so  much  that 
he  rolled  and  pitched  and  dived  among  the  bedclothes. 

"  Ach,  Gott ! "  he  cried,  "  vot  a  girl !  Never — I  haf  nevei 
heard  any  one  so  goot  on  de  stage.  Vot  a  voice,  too  !  A  leetle 
vork  under  a  goot  teacher,  and  den,  mein  Gott !  Vot  is  it 
de  musicians  say?— the  genius  lias  a  Cremona  inside  of  liim 


THE  OUTER  WORLD.  93 

on  which  he  first  composes  his  immortal  vorks.  You  haf 
the  Cremona,  my  clear,  and  I  will  helj)  you  to  bring  it  out. 
Vot  you  tink  ?  " 

It  was  the  hour  of  the  morning  when  the  patients  who 
can  afford  it  have  their  newspapers  brought  up  to  them,  but 
the  newspapers  were  thrown  aside  ;  every  eye  was  on  Glory, 
and  there  was  much  noisy  laughter  and  even  some  clapping 
of  hands. 

Ward  Sister  Allworthy  entered  with  the  house  doctor. 

"Wiiat's  the  meaning  of  this?"  she  demanded.  Glory 
told  the  truth,  and  was  re^jroved. 

"  Who  has  loosened  this  bandage?  "  said  the  doctor.  The 
patient  tried  to  prevaricate,  but  Glory  told  the  truth  again, 
and  was  reproved  once  more. 

*'  And  who  permitted  this  woman  to  come  into  the  ward? " 
said  the  nurse. 

"  I  did,"  said  Glory. 

"You're  not  fit  to  be  a  nurse,  miss,  and  I  shall  certainly 
report  you  as  unfit  for  duty." 

Glory  laughed  in  the  Sister's  face. 

It  was  at  this  moment  that  John  Storm  arrived  after  his 
interview  with  the  canon.  He  drew  Glory  into  the  corridor 
and  tried  to  pacify  her. 

"  Oh,  don't  suppose  I'm  going  to  do  hospital  nursing  all 
my  life,"  she  said.  "  It  may  be  good  womanly  work,  but  I 
want  to  be  a  human  being  with  a  heart,  and  not  a  machine 
called  Duty.  How  I  hate  and  despise  my  sm-roundings ! 
I'll  make  an  end  of  them  one  of  these  days.  Sooner  or  later 
it  must  come  to  that." 

"Your  life  has  been  deranged,  Glory,  and  that  is  why 
you  disdain  your  surroundings.  You  were  at  the  theatre 
last  night." 

"  Who  told  you  that  ?  Well,  v/hat  of  it  ?  Are  you  one 
of  those  who  think  the  theatre " 

"  I  don't  object  to  the  theatre,  Glory.  It  is  the  derange- 
ment of  your  life  I  am  thinking  of ;  and  if  anybody  is  re- 
sponsible for  that  he  is  your  enemy,  not  your  friend." 

"  You  will  make  me  angry  again,  as  you  did  before," 
and  she  began  to  bite  her  quivering  lip. 

"  I  did  not  come  to  make  you  angry,  Glory.     I  came  to 


94  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

ask  you — even  to  entreat  you — to  break  off  this  hateful  con- 
nection."' 

"  Because  you  know  nothing  of  this — this  connection,  as 
you  say — you  call  it  hateful." 

"  I  know  what  I  am  talking  about,  my  child.  The  life 
these  men  live  is  worse  than  hateful ;  and  it  makes  my  heart 
bleed  to  see  you  falling  a  victim  to  it." 

"  You  are  degrading  me  again ;  you  are  always  degrad- 
ing me.     Other  men  try  to  be  agreeable  to  me,  but  you 

Besides,  I  can  not  hear  my  friends  abused.  Yes,  they  are 
my  friends.  I  ^vas  at  the  theatre  with  them  last  night,  and 
I  am  going  to  take  tea  at  their  chambers  on  my  next  holi- 
day.    So  please " 

'•Glory!" 

With  one  jjlunge  of  his  arm  he  had  gripped  her  by  the 
wrist. 

"  You  are  hurting  me." 

"  You  are  never  to  set  foot  in  the  rooms  of  those  men  ! " 

"  Let  me  go  !  " 

"  You  are  as  inexperienced  as  a  child,  Glory,  and  it  is  my 
duty  to  protect  you  against  yourself." 

"  Let  go,  I  say  !  " 

'"Don't  destroy  yourself.  Think  while  there's  time — 
think  of  your  good  name,  your  character ! " 

"  I  shall  do  as  I  please." 

"  Listen  !  If  I  have  chosen  to  be  a  clergyman,  it's  not  be- 
cause I've  lived  all  my  life  in  cotton  wool.  Let  me  tell  you 
what  the  lives  of  such  men  really  are — the  best  of  them,  the 
very  best.  He  gets  up  at  noon,  walks  in  the  park,  takes  tea 
with  some  one,  grunts  and  groans  that  he  must  go  to  some- 
body's dinner  party,  escapes  to  the  Gaiety  Theatre,  sups  at  a 
so-called  club " 

"You  mean  Lord  Robert.  But  what  right  have  you  to 
say " 

"  The  right  of  one  who  knows  him  to  be  as  bad  as  this. 
and  worse — ten  times  worse  I  Such  a  man  thinks  he  has  a 
right  to  play  with  a  girl  if  she  is  poor.  She  may  stake  lier 
soul,  her  .salvation,  but  he  risks  nothing.  To-day  he  trifles 
Avith  Ikm-  ;  tt>-morrow  he  marries  another,  and  lliugs  her  to 
the  devil  I " 


THE  OUTER  WOKLD.  95 

"  There's  something  else  in  this.     What  is  it  ?  " 

But  John  Storm  had  swung-  about  and  left  laer. 

As  soon  as  she  was  at  liberty  she  went  in  search  of  Polly 
Love,  expecting  to  find  her  in  her  cubicle,  but  the  cubicle 
was  empty.  Coming  out  of  the  little  room  she  saw  a  piece 
of  paper  lying  on  the  floor.  It  was  a  letter,  carefully  folded. 
She  picked  it  up,  unfolded  it,  and  read  it,  hardly  knowing 
what  she  was  doing,  for  her  head  was  dizzy  and  her  eyes 
were  swimming  in  unshed  tears.     It  ran  : 

"  You  ask.  Do  I  mean  to  adopt  entirely  ?  Yes  ;  to  bring 
up  just  the  same  as  if  it  were  born  to  me.  I  hope  yours  will 
be  a  strong  and  healthy  boy  ;  but  if  it  is  a  girl " 

Glory  could  not  understand  what  she  was  reading. 
Whose  letter  could  it  be  ?  It  was  addressed  "  X.  Y.  Z.,  Of- 
fice of  Morning  Posty 

There  was  a  hurried  footstep  approaching,  and  Polly 
came  in,  with  her  eyes  on  the  ground  as  if  looking  for  some- 
thing she  had  dropped.  At  the  next  moment  she  had 
snatched  the  letter  out  of  Glory's  hand,  and  was  saying : 

"What  are  you  doing  in  my  room  ?  Has  your  friend 
the  chaplain  told  you  to  spy  upon  me  ? " 

The  expression  on  her  face  was  appalling,  and  Glory,  who 
had  flushed  up  with  shame,  turned  away  without  a  word. 

When  John  Stoma  got  back  to  his  room  he  found  the 
following  letter  from  the  canon  on  his  table  : 

"  Since  our  interview  of  this  morning  (so  strangely 
abridged)  I  have  had  the  honour  to  visit  your  dear  uncle, 
the  Prime  Minister,  and  he  agrees  with  me  that  the  strain 
of  your  recent  examinations  and  the  anxieties  of  a  new  oc- 
cupation have  probably  disturbed  your  health,  and  that  it 
will  be  prudent  of  you  to  take  a  short  vacation.  I  have 
therefore  the  greatest  pleasure  in  assuring  you  that  you  are 
free  from  duty  for  a  week,  a  fortnight,  or  a  month,  as  your 
convenience  may  determine  ;  and  during  your  much-regret- 
ted absence  I  will  do  my  best  to  sustain  the  great  loss  of 
your  invaluable  help." 

On  reading  the  message,  John  Storm  flung  himself  into 
a  chair  and  burst  into  a  long  j)eal  of  bitter  laughter.     But 


96  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

wlien  the  laughter  was  spent  there  came  a  sense  of  great 
loneliness.  Tlien  he  remerabei'ed  Mrs.  Callender,  and  went 
across  to  her  little  house  in  Victoria  Square,  and  showed  her 
the  canon's  letter  and  told  her  everything. 

"  Lies,  lies,  lies  !  "  she  said.  "  Ah,  laddie,  laddie  !  to  lie, 
to  know  you  lie,  to  be  known  to  lie,  and  yet  to  go  on  lying 
— that  is  the  whole  art  of  life  with  these  fashionable  shep- 
herds and  their  fashionable  flock.  As  for  that  woman — 
ugh !  She  was  separated  from  her  husband  for  two  yeai*s 
before  his  death ;  and  he  died  in  a  hotel  abroad  without  kith 
or  kin  to  comfort  him ;  and  now  she  wears  his  hair  in  a  gold 
locket  on  her  bosora — that's  what  she  is  !  But  all's  well  that 
ends  well,  laddie.  The  holly  will  do  ye  good,  for  you  were 
killing  yerself  with  work.  You'll  no  be  spending  it  in  your 
little  island,  now,  eh  ?  " 

John  Storm  was  sitting  with  one  leg  across  the  other, 
and  his  head  on  his  hand  and  his  elbow  on  his  knee. 

"  I  shall  spend  it,"  he  said,  "  in  Retreat  at  the  Brother- 
hood in  Bishopsgate." 

"  God  bless  me,  man !  is  that  the  change  of  air  ye'll  be 
going  to  gie  yoursel'  ?  It  may  be  well  eneugh  for  men  with 
water  in  their  veins ;  but  you  have  blood,  laddie — blood ! 
Tak'  care,  tak'  care !  " 


XVI. 

"  Still  at  Martha's. 

"  Quite  right,  dear  Aunt  Anna,  the  terms  '  authority ' 
and  '  obedience  '  must  be  known  and  honoured.  Only,  when 
it  is  a  case  of  put  a  penny  in  the  slot  and  out  comes  the 
word  of  command,  you  can't  exactly  feel  that  way.  The 
board  of  directors  put  the  penny  into  the  slot  of  this  institu- 
tion, and  the  word  of  command,  so  far  as  I  am  concerned, 
comes  out  of  the  mouth  of  Ward  Sister  Allworthy.  I  call 
her  the  Wliite  Owl.  She  is  five  feet  ten,  and  has  big  round 
cheeks  which  sometimes  I  should  dearly  love  to  slap^as 
mothers  slap  their  '  cliilders '  when  they  administer  a  hu- 
miliating punishment. 

"So  you  think  you  notice  'a  certain  want  of  aptitude'  ? 
Well,  I  don't  think  I  am  naturally  a  bad  nurse,  Aunt  Anna. 


THE  OUTER  WORLD.  97 

The  patients  like  me,  and  they  don't  die  of  the  dumps  when 
I  am  about.  Only  I  can't  practise  nursing  by  the  rule  of 
three,  and  as  a  consequence  I  get  myself  reported.  Sister 
Allworthy  has  reported  me  three  times,  bless  her  !  Thrice 
the  brinded  cat  hath  mewed,  and  now  she  threatens  to  have 
me  up  before  the  matron.  That  dear  soul  has  difficulties  of 
locomotion,  being  buried  under  the  Pelion  on  Ossa  of  a 
mountain  of  fat.  She  inhabits  a  cave  of  Adullam  on  the 
edge  of  the  Inferno — i.  e.,  the  '  theatre ' — below  stairs,  and 
has  a  small  dog  with  a  bad  heart  and  broken  wind  always 
nagging  on  her  knee.  I  call  her  the  Chief  Broker  in  Break- 
ages and  Head  Dealer  in  Diseases,  and  she  is  only  seen  once 
a  day  when  she  comes  round  to  take  stock.  You  have  to  be 
nice  with  her  Majesty,  for  she  can  haul  you  up  at  the 
weekly  board,  and  put  a  score  against  you  in  the  black 
book,  and  send  you  away  without  a  certificate.  If  that  haj)- 
pens,  a  girl  who  expects  to  earn  her  living  as  a  nurse  has 
never  any  particular  need  to  pray,  '  In  all  time  of  our 
wealth,  good  Lord  deliver  us.' 

"  But,  oh,  my  dear  grandfather,  what  do  you  think  of  our 
John  Storm  now  ?  After  uttering  the  lamentations  of  Jere- 
miah and  predicting  all  the  jilagues  of  Egypt,  he  has  gone  off 
to  hold  his  peace — that  is  to  say,  he  has  gone  to  make  his 
'  Eetreat,'  which,  being  interpreted,  means  praying  without 
ceasing,  and  also  without  speaking,  eighteen  hours  a  day, 
six  days  at  a  spell,  and  sometimes  sixty.  When  he  comes 
back  reeking  with  all  that  holiness  I  shall  feel  myself  such 
a  miserable  sinner 

"  Soberly,  I  could  cry  to  think  of  it,  though,  and  when 
I  remember  that  perhaps  I  was  partly  to  blame 

"It  was  this  way  :  In  that  'ter'ble  discoorse'  I  told  you 
he  had  scotched  the  snake,  not  killed  it,  and  his  vicar  (I  call 
him  Mr.  Worldly  Wiseman),  finding  that  his  ladies  and  no- 
bility went  out  like  the  Pharisees,  one  by  one,  told  our  poor 
John  he  was  ill  and  stood  in  need  of  instant  rest.  It  looked 
like  it  certainly,  and  the  trouble  must  have  been  a  sort  of 
human  rabies  in  which  the  poor  victim  bites  at  his  best 
friends  first.  He  came  here  with  his  lower  lip  hanging  like 
an  old  dog's,  and  I  was  so  stupid  as  not  to  see  that  he  was 
being  hunted  like  a  dog  too,  and  only  told  myself  how  ugly 


98  THE   CHRISTIAN. 

and  untidy  he  had  grown  of  late.  But  the  Sister  had  just 
before  been  showing-  me  her  tusks  again,  and  being  possessed 
with  a  fury,  I  gave  it  him  world  without  end.  He  was 
very  unreasonable  though,  and  seemed  to  say  that  I  must 
have  no  friends  and  no  amusements  that  were  not  of  his 
choosing,  and  that  after  spending  my  days  walking  through 
the  inside  of  this  precious  hospital  I  must  spend  my  nights 
walking  round  the  outside  of  it.  Being  a  woman  of  like 
passions  with  himself,  I  had  a  '  ter'ble  dust '  with  him  on  the 
subject,  and  the  next  I  heard  was  that  he  was  going  to  make 
Retreat  in  a  kind  of  English-chui'ch  monastery  somewhei'e 
in  the  city,  where  he  would  '  try  to  disentangle '  himself 
'from  the  world  '  and  see  what  he  '  ought  to  do  next.'  He 
sent  me  his  blessing  with  this  message,  and  I  sent  him  back 
mine — a  less  holy  one,  but  he'll  make  it  do. 

"  I  thought  you  would  remember  Mr.  Drake's  mother, 
dear  Auntie  Rachel.  Yes,  he  is  fair  also,  and  wears  his  hair 
brushed  across  his  forehead,  much  as  you  see  in  the  portraits 
of  Napoleon.  In  fact,  he  is  a  sort  of  fair-haired  Napoleon  in 
nature  as  well. 

"  He  took  me  to  the  theatre  the  other  evening,  and  that 
was  the  great  event  I  intended  to  tell  you  about.  It  was 
quite  a  proper  sort  of  place,  and  nobody  behaved  badly 
except  Glory,  who  kept  talking  and  preaching  and  going 
silly  with  excitement  all  the  evening  through,  with  the  re- 
sult that  everybody  was  staring  mewards  and  wanting  to 
turn  me  out. 

"  Since  then  Mr.  Drake's  friend.  Lord  Bob,  who  knows 
all  the  actors  on  earth  seemingly,  has  taken  us  '  behind,' 
and  we  liave  seen  a  rehearsal.  Things  don't  look  quite  the 
same  behind  as  before,  but  nothing  in  the  world  does  that, 
and  I  wasn't  a  bit  disenchanted.  In  fact,  I  found  every- 
thing delightfully  romantic  and  amusing,  and  really  I  do 
not  think  it  can  be  so  very  wicked  to  be  an  actress.  Do 
you  ? 

"  My  friend  Polly  Love  was  with  us.  Polly  is  a  proba- 
tioner also,  and  sleeps  in  the  cubicle  next  to  mine,  and  after 
the  rehearsal  we  went  to  the  gentlemen's  chambers  to  tea. 
I  can  hear  what  Aunt  Aima  is  saying  :  'Goodness  gracious ! 
you  didn't  do  that,  girl  ? '     Well,  yes,  I  did  though.     In  the 


THE  OUTER  WORLD.  99 

interest  of  my  sex  I  wanted  to  see  how  two  boys  could  live 
in  rooms  all  by  themselves,  and  it's  perfectly  shocking  how 
well  they  get  on  without  a  woman.  Of  course  I  wasn't  such 
a  silly  as  to  let  wit  about  that,  but  after  I  had  examined 
their  sitting--i'Oom  and  cross-examined  its  owners  on  its 
numerous  photographs  (chiefly  feminine)  and  tried  how  it 
feels  to  hold  their  big  pipes  between  one's  teeth,  I  whipped 
off  my  hat  at  once  and  began  to  put  things  straight  for 
them,  and  then  I  made  the  tea. 

"By  this  time  the  gentlemen  had  changed  into  their 
jackets,  and  I  sent  them  flying  around  for  cups  and  saucers 
and  sugar  basins.  It  turned  out  that  they  had  only  one  tea- 
spoon in  the  place,  and  when  anybody  wanted  to  stir  her  tea 
she  said,  '  Will  you  oblige  me  with  the  spoon,  please  ? ' 
What  fun  it  was !  We  laughed  until  we  cried — at  least  one 
of  us  did — and  eventually  we  managed  to  break  the  teapot 
and  a  slop  basin  and  to  overturn  a  standing  lamj).  It  was 
perfectly  delightful  ! 

"  But  the  best  sport  was  after  tea  was  over,  and  Glory  was 
called  on  for  imitations  of  the  people  we  had  seen  at  the 
theatre.  Of  course  she  couldn't  imitate  a  man  when  she 
was  in  a  woman's  frock,  so  being  as  bright  as  diamonds  that 
night  and  twice  '  as  impudent  as  a  white  stone,'  *  she  actually 
conceived  the  idea  of  dressing  up  in  man's  clothes.  Natu- 
rally the  gentlemen  were  enchanted,  so  I  hope  Auntie 
Eachel  isn't  terribly  shocked.  Mr.  Drake  lent  me  his  knick- 
erbockers and  a  velvet  jacket,  and  Polly  and  I  went  into 
the  bedroom,  where  she  helped  me  to  find  the  way  to  put 
them  on.  W^ith  my  own  blouse  and  my  own  hat  (I  am 
wearing  a  felt  one  now  with  a  broad  brim  and  a  feather), 
and  of  course  my  own  slippers  and  stockings,  I  made  a 
bogh  of  a  boy,  I  can  tell  you.  I  thought  Polly  would 
have  died  of  delight  in  the  bedroom,  but  when  we  came 
out  she  kept  covering  her  face  and  crjang,   'Glory,  how 


I' 


can  you ! 

"I'm  afraid  I  sang  and  talked  more  than  was  good  for 
the  soul,  but  it  was  all  Mr.  Drake's  doing.  He  declared  I 
was  such  a  marvellous  mimic  that  it  was  simply  a  waste  of 

*  A  Manx  proverb. 


100  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

time  and  the  good  gifts  of  God  to  go  on  hospital  nursing  any- 
longer.  And  I  do  believe  that  if  anything  happened,  and 
the  need  arose,  he  would 

"  Only  fancy  Glory  a  public  jierson,  and  all  the  woi'ld 
and  his  wife  going  down  on  their  knees  to  her  !  But  then 
it's  fearful  to  think  of  being  an  actress,  isn't  it  ? 

'•  After  all  such  glorious  '  outs  '  I  have  to  go  '  in  '  to  the 
hospital,  and  then  comes  my  fit  again.  Do  you  remember 
my  little  boy  who  said  he  was  going  to  the  angels,  and  he 
would  get  lots  of  gristly  pork  up  there  ?  He  has  gone,  and 
I  don't  think  I  like  nursing  children  now.  Oh,  how  I  long 
to  go  out  into  the  world  !  I  want  to  shine  in  it.  I  want  to 
become  great  and  glorious.  I  could  do  it  too,  I  know  I 
could.  I  have  got  it  in  me,  I  am  sure  I  have.  Yet  here  I 
am  in  a  little  dark  corner  crying  for  the  sunshine  ! 

"  How  silly  this  is,  isn't  it  ?  It  sounds  like  madness. 
My  dears,  allow  me  to  introduce  you  to  some  one — 

"  Glory  Quayle, 
"  March  Hare  and  Madwoman." 


XVII. 

The  board  room  of  the  hospital  of  Martha's  Vineyard 
was  a  large  and  luxurious  chamber,  with  an  oval  window  at 
its  farther  end,  and  its  two  side  walls  panelled  with  por- 
traits of  former  chairmen  and  physicians.  In  great  oaken 
armchairs,  behind  ponderous  oaken  tables,  covered  with 
green  cloth  and  furnished  with  writing  pads,  the  Board  of 
Governors  sat  in  three  sides  of  a  square,  leaving  an  open 
space  in  the  middle.  This  open  space  was  reserved  for  pa- 
tients seeking  admission  or  receiving  discharge,  and  for  offi- 
cers of  the  hospital  presenting  their  weekly  reports. 

On  a  morning  in  August  the  mati'on's  report  had  closed 
with  a  startling  item.  It  recommended  the  innnediate  sus- 
pension of  a  nurse  on  the  ground  of  gross  improi)riety  of 
conduct.  The  usual  course  in  such  a  case  was  for  the  board 
of  the  hospital  to  depute  the  matron  to  act  for  them  in  pri- 
vate, but  the  chairman  in  this  instance  was  a  peppery  person 
with  a  stern  mouth  and  a  solid  unJer-jaw. 


THE  OUTER  WORLD.  101 

"  This  is  a  most  serious  matter,"  he  said.  "  I  think — this 
being  a  public  institution — I  really  think  the  board  should 
investigate  the  case  for  itself.  We  ought  to  assure  ourselves 
that — that,  in  fact,  no  other  irregularity  is  going  on  in  the 
hospital." 

"  May  it  please  your  lordshiij,"  said  a  rotund  voice  from 
one  of  the  side  tables,  "  I  would  suggest  that  a  case  like  this 
of  grievous  moral  delinquency  comes  directly  within  the 
dispensation  of  the  chaplain,  and  if  he  has  done  his  duty  by 
the  unhappy  girl  (as  no  doubt  he  has)  he  must  have  a  state- 
ment to  make  to  the  board  with  regard  to  her." 

It  was  Canon  Wealthy. 

"  I  may  mention,"  he  added,  "  that  Mr.  Storm  has 
now  returned  to  his  duties,  and  is  at  present  in  the  hos- 
pital." 

"  Send  for  him,"  said  the  chairman. 

When  John  Storm  entered  the  board  room  it  was  re- 
marked that  he  looked  no  better  for  his  holiday.  His  cheeks 
were  thinner,  his  eyes  more  hollow,  and  there  was  a  strange 
pallor  under  his  swarthy  skin. 

The  business  was  explained  to  him,  and  he  was  asked  if 
he  had  any  statement  to  make  with  regard  to  the  nurse  whona 
the  matron  had  reported  for  suspension. 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  I  have  no  statement." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  tell  the  board,"  said  the  chairman, 
"  that  you  know  nothing  of  this  matter — that  the  case  is  too 
trivial  for  your  attention — or  perhaps  that  you  have  never 
even  spoken  to  the  girl  on  the  subject  ? " 

"  That  is  so — I  never  have,"  said  John. 

"  Then  you  shall  do  so  now,"  said  the  chairman,  and  he 
put  his  hand  on  the  bell  beside  him,  and  the  messenger 
appeared. 

"  You  can  not  intend,  sir,  to  examine  the  gii'l  here,"  said 
Johij. 

"  And  why  not  ? " 

"  Before  so  many — and  all  of  us  men  save  one.  Surely 
the  matron " 

The  canon  rose  to  his  feet  again.  "  My  young  brother 
is  naturally  sensitive,  my  lord,  but  I  assure  him  his  delicate 
feelings  are  wasted  on  a  girl  like  this.     He  forgets  that  the 


102  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

shame  lies  in  tlie  girl's  sin,  not  in  her  just  and  necessary 
punishment/' 

"  Bring  her  in,"  said  the  cliairman.  Tlie  matron  whis- 
pered to  the  messenger,  and  he  left  the  room. 

"  Pardon  me,  sir,"  said  John  Storm  ;  "  if  it  is  your  ex- 
pectation that  I  should  question  the  nurse  on  her  sin,  as  the 
canon  says,  I  can  not  do  so." 

"  Can  not  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  will  not." 

"  And  is  that  your  idea  of  your  duty  as  a  chaplain  ? " 

"  It  is  the  matron's  duty,  not  the  chaplain's,  to " 

"  The  matron  1  The  matron !  This  is  your  parish,  sir — 
your  parish.  A  great  public  institution  is  in  danger  of  a 
disgraceful  scandal,  and  you  who  are  responsible  for  its 
spiritual  welfare — really,  gentlemen " 

Again  the  canon  rose  with  a  conciliatory  smile. 

"  I  think  I  understand  my  young  friend,"  he  said,  "  and 
your  lordship  and  the  board  will  appreciate  his  feelings, 
however  you  may  disapprove  of  his  judgment.  What  gen- 
erous heart  can  not  symj)athize  with  the  sensitive  spirit  of 
the  youthful  clergyman  who  shrinks  from  the  spectacle  of 
guilt  and  shame  in  a  young  and  perhaps  beautiful  woman  ? 
But  if  it  will  relieve  your  lordship  from  an  embarrassing 
position,  I  am  myself  willing " 

"  Thank  you,"  said  the  chairman  ;  and  then  the  girl  was 
brought  into  the  room  in  charge  of  Sister  Alhvorthy. 

She  was  holding  her  head  down  and  trying  to  cover  her 
face  with  her  hands. 

"  Your  name,  girl  ? "  said  the  canon. 

"Mary  Elizabeth  Love,"  she  faltered. 

"  You  are  aware,  Mary  Elizabeth  Love,  that  our  excel- 
lent and  indulgent  matron  "  (here  he  bowed  to  a  stout  lady 
who  sat  in  the  open  space)  "  has  been  put  to  the  painful 
duty  of  reporting  you  for  suspensitm,  which  is  equivalent 
to  your  immediate  discliarge.  Now,  I  can  not  hold  out  a 
hope  that  the  board  will  not  ratify  her  recommendation, 
but  it  may  perhaps  qualify  the  terms  of  your  '  character '  if 
you  can  show  these  gentlemen  that  the  unha])py  lapse  from 
good  conduct  whicli  brings  you  to  this  i)()sition  of  shame 
and  disgrace  is  due  in  any  measure  to  irregularities  prac- 


THE  OUTER  WORLD.  103 

tised  perhaps  within  this  liospital,  oi'  to  the  temptations  of 
any  one  connected  "with  it." 

The  girl  began  to  cry. 

"  Speak,  nurse  ;  if  you  have  anytliing  to  say,  the  gentle- 
men are  willing  to  hear  it." 

The  girl's  crying  deepened  into  sobs. 

"  Useless  !  "  said  the  chairman. 

"  Impossible  !  "  said  the  canon. 

But  some  one  suggested  that  perhaps  the  nurse  had  a  girl 
friend  in  the  hospital  who  could  throw  light  on  the  diffi- 
cult situation.  Then  Sister  Allworthy  whispered  to  the  ma- 
tron, who  said,  "  Bring  her  in." 

John  Storm's  face  had  assumed  a  fixed  and  absent  ex- 
pression, but  he  saw  a  girl  of  larger  size  than  Polly  Love 
enter  the  room  with  a  gleam,  as  it  were,  of  sunshine  on  her 
golden-red  hair.     It  was  Glory. 

There  was  some  preliminary  whispering,  and  then  the 
canon  began  again : 

"  You  are  a  friend  and  companion  of  Mary  Elizabeth 
Love  ? " 

"  Yes,"  said  Glory. 

Her  voice  was  full  and  calm,  and  a  look  of  quiet  cour- 
age lit  up  her  girlish  beauty. 

''  You  have  known  her  other  friends,  no  donbt,  and  per- 
haps you  have  shared  her  confidence  ?  " 

"  I  think  so." 

"Then  you  can  tell  the  board  if  the  unhappy  condition 
in  which  she  finds  herself  is  due  to  any  one  coionected  with 
this  hospital." 

"  I  think  not." 

"  Not  to  any  oflBcer,  servant,  or  member  of  any  school 
attached  to  it  ? " 

"  No." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  the  chairman,  "  that  is  quite  enough," 
and  down  the  tables  of  the  governors  there  were  nods  and 
smiles  of  satisfaction. 

"  What  have  I  done  ?  "  said  Glory. 

"  You  have  done  a  great  service  to  an  ancient  and  hon- 
ourable institution,"  said  the  canon,  "and  the  best  return  the 
boai'd  can  make  for  your  candour  and  intelligence  is  to  ad- 


104  THE   CHRISTIAN. 

vise  you  to  avoid  such  companionship  for  the  future  and  to 
flee  such  pei'ilous  associations." 

A  certain  desperate  recklessness  expressed  itself  in 
Glory's  face,  and  she  stepped  up  to  Polly,  who  was  now 
weeping  audibly,  and  put  her  arm  about  the  girl's  waist. 

"  What  are  the  girl's  relatives  ?  "  said  the  chairman. 

The  matron  replied  out  of  her  book.  Polly  was  an 
orphan,  both  her  parents  being  dead.  She  had  a  brother 
who  had  lately  been  a  patient  in  the  hospital,  but  he  was 
only  a  lay-helper  in  the  Anglican  Monastery  at  Bi-shopsgate 
Street,  and  therefore  useless  for  present  purposes. 

There  was  some  further  whisj)ering  about  the  tables. 
Was  this  the  girl  who  had  been  recommended  to  the  hos- 
pital by  the  coroner  who  had  investigated  a  certain  notori- 
ous and  tragic  case  ?    Yes. 

"  I  think  I  have  heard  of  some  poor  and  low  relations," 
said  the  canon,  "  but  their  own  condition  is  probably  too 
needy  to  allow  them  to  help  her  at  a  time  like  the  present." 

Down  to  this  moment  Polly  had  done  nothing  but  cry, 
but  now  she  flamed  up  in  a  passion  of  pride  and  resentment. 

"  It's  false  !  "  she  cried.  "  I  have  no  poor  and  low  rela- 
tions, and  I  want  nobody's  help.  My  friend  is  a  gentleman 
— as  much  a  gentleman  as  anybody  here — and  I  can  tell  you 
his  name,  if  you  like.  He  lives  in  St.  James's  Street,  and  he 
is  Lord " 

"  Stop,  girl ! "  said  the  canon,  in  a  loud  voice.  "  We  can 
not  allow  you  to  compromise  the  honour  of  a  gentleman  by 
mentioning  his  name  in  his  absence." 

John  stepped  to  one  of  the  tables  of  the  governors  and 
took  up  a  pamphlet  which  lay  there.  It  Avas  the  last  annual 
report  of  Martha's  Vineyard,  with  a  list  of  its  governors  and 
subscribers. 

"  Tlie  girl  is  suspended,"  said  the  chairman,  and  reacliing 
for  the  matron's  book,  he  signed  it  and  returned  it. 

"  This,"  said  the  canon,  "  appears  to  be  a  case  for  Mrs. 
Callender's  Maternity  Home  at  Soho,  and  with  the  consent 
of  the  board  I  will  request  the  chaplain  to  communicate 
with  tliat  lady  immediatel3^" 

John  Storm  had  heard,  but  he  made  no  answer ;  he  was 
turning  over  the  leaves  of  the  pamphlet. 


THE  OUTER  WORLD.  105 

The  canon  hemmed  and  cleared  his  throat.  "  Mary  Eliza- 
beth Love,"  he  said,  "you  have  brought  a  stain  upon  this 
honourable  and  hitherto  irrej)roachabIe  institution,  but  I 
trust  and  believe  that  ere  long,  and  before  your  misbegotten 
child  is  born,  you  may  see  cause  to  be  grateful  for  our  for- 
bearance and  our  charity.  Speaking  for  myself,  I  confess  it 
is  an  occasion  of  grief  to  me,  and  might  well,  I  think,  be  a 
cause  of  sorrow  to  him  who  has  had  your  spiritual  welfare 
in  his  keeping  "  (here  he  gave  a  look  toward  John),  "  that  you 
do  not  seem  to  realize  the  position  of  infamy  in  which  you 
stand.  We  have  always  been  taught  to  think  of  a  woman  as 
sweet  and  true  and  pui^e  ;  a  being  hallowed  to  our  sympathy 
by  the  most  sacred  associations,  and  endeared  to  our  love  by 
the  tenderest  ties,  and  it  is  only  right "  (the  canon's  voice  was 
breaking),  "  it  is  only  right,  I  say,  that  you  should  be  told  at 
once,  and  in  this  place — though  tardily  and  too  late — that 
for  the  woman  who  wi-ongs  that  ideal,  as  you  have  wronged 
it,  there  is  but  one  name  known  among  persons  of  good 
credit  and  good  report — a  hard  name,  a  terrible  name,  a 
name  of  contempt  and  loathing — the  name  of  prosti- 
tute!'' 

Crushing  the  pamphlet  in  his  hand,  John  Storm  had 
taken  a  step  toward  the  canon,  but  he  was  too  late.  Some  one 
was  there  before  him.  It  was  Grlory.  With  her  head  ei*ect 
and  her  eyes  flashing,  she  stood  between  the  weeping  girl 
and  the  black-coated  judge,  and  everybody  could  see  the 
swelling  and  heaving  of  her  bosom. 

"  How  dare  you  !  "  she  cried.  "  You  say  you  have  been 
taught  to  think  of  a  woman  as  sweet  and  pure.  Well,  / 
have  -been  taught  to  think  of  a  man  as  strong  and  brave, 
and  tender  and  merciful  to  every  living  creature,  but  most 
of  all  to  a  woman,  if  she  is  erring  and  fallen.  But  you  are 
not  brave  and  tender ;  you  are  cruel  and  cowardly,  and  I  de- 
spise you  and  hate  you  ! " 

The  men  at  the  tables  were  rising  from  their  seats. 

"Oh,  you  have  discharged  my  friend,"  she  said,  "and 
you  may  discharge  me,  too,  if  you  like — if  you  dare  !  But 
I  will  tell  everybody  that  it  was  because  I  would  not  let  you 
insult  a  poor  girl  with  a  cruel  and  shameful  name,  and  trample 
upon  her  when  she  was  down.  And  everybody  will  believe 
8 


106  THE   CHRISTIAN. 

me,  because  it  is  the  truth  ;  and  anything  else  you  may  say 
will  be  a  lie,  and  all  the  world  will  know  it ! " 

The  matron  was  shambling  up  also. 

"  How  dare  you,  miss  I  Go  back  to  your  ward  this  in- 
stant !    Do  you  know  whom  you  are  speaking  to  ? " 

"  Oh,  it's  not  the  first  time  I've  spoken  to  a  clergyman, 
ma'am.  I'm  the  daughter  of  a  clergyman,  and  the  grand- 
daughter of  a  clergyman,  and  I  know  what  a  clergyman  is 
when  he  is  brave  and  good,  and  gentle  and  merciful  to  all 
women,  and  when  he  is  a  man  and  a  gentleman — not  a 
Pharisee  and  a  crocodile  ! " 

"  Please  take  that  girl  away,"  said  the  chairman. 

But  John  Storm  was  by  her  side  in  a  moment. 

"  No,  sir,"  he  said,  "  nobody  shall  do  that." 

But  now  Glory  had  broken  down  too,  and  the  girls,  like 
two  lost  children,  were  crying  on  each  other's  breasts.  John 
opened  the  door  and  led  them  up  to  it. 

"  Take  your  friend  to  her  room,  nurse ;  I  shall  be  with 
you  presently." 

Then  he  turned  back  to  the  chairman,  still  holding  the 
crumpled  pamjjhlet  in  his  hand,  and  said  calmly  and  re- 
spectfully : 

"  And  now  that  you  have  finished  with  the  woman,  sir, 
may  I  ask  what  you  intend  to  do  with  the  man  ?  " 

'■  What  man  ?  " 

"  Tliough  I  did  not  feel  myself  qualified  to  sit  in  judg- 
ment on  the  broken  heart  of  a  fallen  girl,  I  happen  to  know 
tlie  name  which  she  was  forbidden  to  mention,  and  I  find  it 
here,  sir — here  in  your  list  of  subscribers  and  governoi's." 

"  Well,  what  of  it  ? " 

"  You  have  wiped  the  girl  out  of  your  books,  sir.  Now  I 
ask  you  to  wipe  the  man  out  also." 

"  Gentlemen,"  said  the  chairman,  rising,  "  the  business  of 
the  board  is  at  an  end." 


THE  OUTER  WORLD.  10.7 


XVIII. 

John  Storm  wrote  a  letter  to  Mrs.  Callender  explaining 
Polly  Love's  situation  and  asking  her  to  call  on  the  girl 
immediately,  and  then  he  went  out  in  search  of  Lord  Robert 
Ure  at  the  address  he  had  discovered  in  the  report. 

He  found  the  man  alone  on  his  arrival,  but  Drake  came 
in  soon  afterward.  Lord  Robert  received  him  with  a  chilly 
bow ;  Drake  offered  his  hand  coldly ;  neither  of  them  re- 
quested him  to  sit. 

"  You  are  surprised  at  my  vi.sit,  gentlemen,"  said  John, 
"  but  I  have  just  now  been  present  at  a  painful  scene,  and 
I  thought  it  necessai'y  that  you  should  know  something 
about  it." 

Then  he  described  what  had  occurred  in  tlie  board  room, 
and  in  doing  so  dwelt  chiefly  on  the  abjectness  of  the  girl's 
humiliation.  Lord  Robert  stood  by  the  window  rapping  a 
tune  on  the  window  pane,  and  Drake  sat  in  a  low  chair 
with  his  legs  stretched  out  and  his  hands  in  his  trousers 
pockets. 

"  But  I  am  at  a  loss  to  understand  why  you  have  thought 
it  necessary  to  come  here  to  tell  that  story,"  said  Lord 
Robert. 

"Lord  Robert,"  said  John,  "you  understand  me  per- 
fectly." 

"  Excuse  me,  Mr.  Storm,  I  do  not  understand  you  in  the 
least." 

"  Then  I  will  not  ask  you  if  you  are  responsible  for  the 
girl's  j)ositiou." 

"  Don't." 

"  But  I  will  ask  you  a  simpler  and  easier  question." 

"  What  is  it  ? " 

"  When  are  you  going  to  marry  her  ? " 

Lord  Robert  burst  into  ironical  laughter  and  faced  round 
to  Drake. 

"  Well,  these  men — these  curates — their  assurance,  don't 
you  know  .  .  .  May  I  ask  your  reverence  what  is 
your  position  in  this  mattex* — your  standing,  don't  you 
know  ? " 


108  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

"  That  of  chaplain  of  the  hospital." 

"  But  you  say  she  has  been  tui'ned  out  of  it." 

"  Ver}'  well,  Lord  Robert,  merely  that  of  a  man  who  in- 
tends to  protect  an  injured  woman." 

"Oh,  I  know,"  said  Lord  Eobert  dryly,  "I  understand 
these  heroics.  I've  heard  of  your  sermons,  Mr.  Storm — 
your  inteirviews  with  ladies,  and  so  forth." 

"And  I  have  heard  of  your  doings  with  girls,"  said  John. 
"  What  are  you  going  to  do  for  this  one  ?  " 

•'  Exactly  what  I  please." 

"  Take  care  !     You  know  what  the  girl  is.     It's  precisely 

such  girls At  this  moment  she  is  tottering  on  the  brink 

of  hell.  Lord  Robert.  If  anything  further  should  happen — 
if  you  should  disappoint  her — she  is  looking  to  you  and 
building  up  hopes — if  she  should  fall  still  lower  and  de- 
stroy herself  body  and  soul " 

"  My  dear  Mr.  Storm,  please  understand  that  I  shall  do 
everything  or  nothing  for  the  girl  exactly  as  I  think  well, 
don't  you  know,  without  the  counsel  or  coercion  of  -any 
clergyman." 

There  was  a  short  silence,  and  then  John  Storm  said 
quietly:  "It  is  no  worse  than  I  expected.  But  I  had  to 
hear  it  from  your  own  lips,  and  I  have  heard  it.  Good- 
day." 

He  went  back  to  the  hospital  and  asked  for  Glory.  She 
was  banished  with  Polly  to  the  housekeeper's  room.  Polly 
was  catching  flies  on  the  window  (which  overlooked  the 
park)  and  humming,  "  Sigh  no  more,  ladies."  Glory's  eyes 
were  red  with  weeping.     John  drew  Glory  aside. 

"  I  have  written  to  Mrs.  Callender,  and  she  will  be  here 
presently,"  he  said. 

"  It  is  useless,"  said  Glory.  "  Polly  will  refuse  to  go. 
She  expects  Lord  Robert  to  come  for  her,  and  she  wants  me 
to  call  on  Mr.  Drake." 

"  But  I  have  seen  the  man  myself." 

"  Lord  Robert  ? " 

"Yes.     He  will  do  nothing." 

"  Nothing ! " 

"  Nothing,  or  worse  than  nothing." 

"  Impossible ! " 


THE  OUTER  WORLD.  109 

"Nothing  of  that  kind  is  impossible  to  men  like 
those." 

"  They  are  not  so  bad  as  that  though,  and  even  if  Lord 
Robert  is  all  you  say,  Mr.  Drake " 

"  They  ai'e  friends  and  housemates,  Glory,  and  what  the 
one  is  the  other  must  be  also." 

"  Oh,  no.     Mr.  Drake  is  quite  a  different  person." 

"  Don't  be  misled,  my  child.  If  there  were  any  real  dif- 
ference between  them " 

"  But  there  is ;  and  if  a  girl  were  in  trouble  or  wanted 
help  in  anything " 

"He  would  drop  her.  Glory,  like  an  old  lottery  ticket 
that  has  drawn  a  blank  and  is  done  for." 

She  was  biting  her  lip,  and  it  was  bleeding  slightly. 

"You  dislike  Mr.  Drake,"  she  said,  "and  that  is  why  you 
can  not  be  just  to  him.  But  he  is  always  praising  and  ex- 
cusing you,  and  when  any  one " 

"  His  jn'aises  and  excuses  are  nothing  to  me.  I  am  not 
thinking  of  myself.     I  am  thinking " 

He  had  a  look  of  intense  excitement,  and  his  speaking 
was  abrupt  and  disconnected. 

"  You  were  splendid  this  morning.  Glory,  and  when  I 
think  of  the  girl  who  defied  that  Pharisee,  being  perhaps 
herself  the  victim —  The  man  asked  me  what  my  standing 
was,  as  if  that —  But  if  I  had  really  had  a  right,  if  the 
girl  had  been  anything  to  me,  if  she  had  been  somebody  else 
and  not  a  light,  shallow,  worthless  creature,  do  you  know 
what  I  should  have  said  to  him  ?  '  Since  things  have  gone 
so  far.  sir,  you  must  marry  the  girl  now,  and  keep  to  her  and 
be  faithful  to  her,  and  love  her,  or  else  I " 

"  You  are  flushed  and  excited,  and  there  is  something  I  do 
not  understand " 

"  Promise  me.  Glory,  that  you  will  bi-eak  off  this  bad 
connection." 

"  You  are  unreasonable.     I  can  not  promise." 

"  Promise  that  you  will  never  see  these  men  again." 

"  But  I  must  see  Mr.  Drake  at  once  and  ai'range  about 
Polly." 

"  Don't  mention  the  man's  name  again ;  it  makes  my 
blood  boil  to  hear  you  speak  it  I " 


110  THE   CHRISTIAN. 

"But  this  is  tyranny  ;  and  you  are  worse  than  the  canon  ; 
and  I  can  not  bear  it.'' 

"  Very  well ;  as  you  will.  It's  of  no  use  struggling— 
What  is  the  time  ? " 

"  Six  o'clock  nearly." 

"  I  must  see  the  canon  before  he  goes  to  dinner." 

His  manner  had  changed  suddenly.  He  looked  crushed 
and  benumbed. 

"  I  am  going  now,"  he  said,  turning  aside. 

"  So  soon  ?    When  shall  I  see  you  again  ? " 

"  God  knows  ! — I  mean — I  don't  know,"  he  answered  in 
a  helpless  way. 

He  was  looking  around,  as  if  taking  a  mental  farewell  of 
everything. 

"  But  we  can  not  part  like  this,"  she  said.  "  I  think  you 
like  me  a  little  still,  and " 

Her  supplicating  voice  made  him  look  up  into  her  face 
for  a  moment.  Then  he  tiuuied  away,  saying,  "  Good-bye, 
Glory."  And  with  a  look  of  utter  exhaustion  he  went  out 
of  the  room. 

Glory  walked  to  a  window  at  the  end  of  the  corridor 
that  she  might  see  him  when  he  crossed  the  street.  Thei'e 
was  just  a  glimpse  of  his  back  as  he  turned  the  corner  with 
a  slow  step  and  his  head  on  his  breast.  She  went  back 
crying. 

"  I  could  fancy  a  fi'esh  herring  for  supper,  dear,"  said 
Polly.     "  What  do  you  say,  housekeeper  ? " 

John  Storm  went  back  to  the  canon's  house  a  crushed 
and  humiliated  man.  "  I  can  do  no  more,"  he  thought.  "  I 
will  give  it  up."  His  old  influence  with  Glory  must  have 
been  lost.  Something  had  come  between  them — something 
or  some  one.  "  Anyhow  it  is  all  over  and  I  must  go  away 
somewhei'e." 

To  go  on  seeing  Glory  would  be  useless.  It  would  also 
be  dangerous.  As  often  as  he  was  face  to  face  with  her  he 
wanted  to  lay  hold  of  her  and  say,  "  You  must  do  this  and 
this,  because  it  is  my  wisli  and  direction  and  command,  and 
it  is  /  that  say  so  !  "  In  the  midst  of  God's  work  how  subtle 
were  the  temptations  of  the  devil ! 

But  with  every  step  that  he  went  plodding  home  there 


THE   OUTER  WORLD.  i^i 

came  other  feelings.  He  could  see  the  girl  quite  plainly, 
her  fresh  young  face,  so  strong  and  so  tender,  so  full  of  hu- 
mour and  heart's  love,  and  al]  the  sweet  beauty  of  her  form 
and  figure.  Then  the  old  pain  in  his  breast  came  back  again 
and  he  began  to  be  afraid. 

"I  will  take  refuge  in  the  Church,"  he  thought.  In 
prayer  and  penance  and  fasting  he  would  find  help  and 
consolation.  The  Church  was  i^eace — peace  from  the  noise 
of  life,  and  strength  to  fight  and  to  vanquish'.  But  the 
Church  must  be  the  Church  of  God — not  of  the  world,  the 
flesh,  and  the  devil. 

"  Ask  the  canon  if  he  can  see  me  immediatelj^,"  said 
John  Storm  to  the  footman,  and  he  stood  in  the  hall  for  the 
answer. 

The  canon  had  taken  tea  that  day  in  the  study  with  his 
daughter  Felicity.  He  was  reclining  on  the  sofa,  pi'opped 
up  with  velvet  cushions,  and  holding  the  teacup  and  saucer 
like  the  wings  of  a  buttei'fly  in  both  hands. 

"We  have  been  deceived,  my  dear"  (sip,  sij}),  "and  we 
must  pay  the  penalty  of  the  deception.  Yet  we  have  noth- 
ing to  blame  ourselves  for — nothing  whatever.  Here  was  a 
young  man,  from  Heaven  knows  where,  bent  on  entering 
the  diocese.  True,  he  was  merely  the  son  of  a  poor  lord 
who  had  lived  the  life  of  a  hermit,  but  he  was  also  the 
nephew,  and  presumably  the  heir,  of  the  Prime  Minister  of 
England "  (sip,  sip,  sip).  "  Well,  I  gave  him  his  title.  I 
received  him  into  my  house.  I  made  him  free  of  my  fam- 
ily— and  what  is  the  result  ?  He  has  disregarded  my  in- 
structions, antagonized  my  supporters,  and  borne  himself 
toward  me  with  an  attitude  of  defiance,  if  not  dis- 
dain." 

Felicity  poured  out  a  second  cup  of  tea  for  her  father, 
sympathized  with  him,  and  set  forth  her  own  grievances. 
The  young  man  had  no  conversation,  and  his  reticence  was 
quite  embarrassing.  Sometimes  when  she  had  friends,  and 
asked  him  to  come  down,  his  silence — well,  really 

"  We  might  have  borne  with  these  little  deficiencies,  my 
dear,  if  the  Prime  Minister  had  been  deeply  interested.  But 
he  is  not.  I  doubt  if  he  has  ever  seen  his  nephew  since  that 
first  occasion.    And  when  I  called  at  Downing  Street,  about 


112  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

the  time  of  the  sermon,  he  seemed  entirely  undisturbed. 
'  The  young  man  is  in  the  wrong  place,  my  dear  canon ; 
send  him  back  to  me.'     That  was  all." 

"  Then  why  don't  you  do  it  ? "  said  Felicity. 

"  It  is  coming-  to  that,  my  child  ;  but  blood  is  thicker  than 
water,  you  know,  and  after  all " 

It  was  at  this  moment  the  footman  entered  the  room  to 
ask  if  the  canon  could  see  Mr.  Storm. 

"Ah,  the  man  himself!"  said  the  canon.  I'ising.  "Jen- 
kyns,  remove  the  tray."  Dropping  his  voice  :  "  Felicity,  I 
will  ask  you  to  leave  us  together.     After  what  occurred  this 

morning  at  the  hospital  anything  like  a  scene "     Then 

aloud  :  "  Bring  him  in,  Jenkyns. — Say  something,  my  dear. 
Why  don't  you  speak  ? — Come  in,  my  dear  Storm. — You'll 
see  to  that  matter  for  me,  Felicity.  Thanks,  thanks  !  Sorry 
to  send  you  off,  but  I'm  sure  Mr.  Storm  will  excuse  you. 
Good-bye  for  the  present." 

Felicity  went  out  as  John  Storm  came  in.  He  looked 
excited,  and  there  was  an  expression  of  pain  in  his  face. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  disturb  you,  but  I  need  not  detain  you 
long,"  he  said. 

"  Sit  down,  Mr.  Storm,  sit  down,"  said  the  canon,  return- 
ing to  the  sofa. 

But  John  did  not  sit.  He  stood  by  the  chair  vacated  by 
Felicity,  and  kept  beating  his  hat  on  the  back  of  it. 

"  I  have  come  to  tell  you,  sir,  that  I  wish  to  resign  my 
curacy." 

The  canon  glanced  up  with  a  stealthy  expression,  and 
thought :  "  How  clever  of  him  !  To  resign  before  he  is  told 
plainly  that  he  has  to  go — that  is  very  clever." 

Then  he  said  aloud :  "  I  am  sorry,  very  sorry.  I'm 
always  sorry  to  part  with  my  clergy.  Still — you  see  I  am 
entirely  frank  with  you — I  have  observed  that  you  have  not 
been  comfortable  of  late,  and  I  think  you  are  acting  for  the 
best.     When  do  you  wish  to  leave  me  ? " 

"  As  soon  as  convenient — as  early  as  I  can  be  spared." 

The  canon   smiled    condescendingly.      "  That  need  not 

trouble  you  at  all.     With  a  staff  like  mine,  you  see Of 

course,  j'ou  are  aware  that  I  am  entitled  to  three  months' 
notice  ? " 

"  Yes." 


THE   OUTER  WORLD.  113 

"  But  I  will  waive  it ;  I  will  not  detain  you.  Have  you 
seen  your  uncle  on  the  subject  ? " 

"No." 

"  When  you  do  so  please  say  that  I  always  try  to  remove 
impediments  from  a  young  man's  path  if  he  is  uncomfort- 
able— in  the  wrong  place,  for  example." 

"Thank  you,''  said  John  Storm,  and  then  he  hesitated  a 
moment  before  stepping  to  the  door. 

The  canon  rose  and  bowed  affably.  "  Not  an  angry 
word,"  he  thought.  "  Who  shall  say  that  blood  does  not 
count  for  something  ?  " 

"Believe  me,  my  dear  Storm,"  he  said  aloud,  "I  shall 
always  remember  with  pride  and  pleasure  our  early  connec- 
tion. Perhaps  I  think  you  are  acting  unwisely,  even  fool- 
ishly, but  it  will  continue  to  be  a  source  of  satisfaction  to 
me  that  I  was  able  to  give  you  your  first  opportunity,  and 
if  your  next  curacy  should  chance  to  be  in  London,  I  trust 
you  will  allow  us  to  maintain  the  acquaintance." 

John  Storm's  face  was  twitching  and  his  pulses  were 
beating  violently,  but  he  was  trying  to  control  himself. 

"  Thank  you,"  he  said  ;  "  but  it  is  not  very  likely " 

"  Don't  say  you  are  giving  up  Orders,  dear  Mr.  Storm,  or 
perhaps  that  you  are  only  leaving  our  church  in  order  to 
unite  yourself  to  another.  Ah  !  have  I  touched  on  a  tender 
l^oint  ?  You  must  not  be  sui'prised  that  rumoi;rs  have  been 
rife.  We  can  not  silence  the  tongues  of  busybodies  and 
mischief-makers,  you  know.  And  I  confess,  speaking  as 
your  spiritual  head  and  adviser,  it  would  be  a  source  of 
grief  to  me  if  a  young  clergyman,  who  has  eaten  the  bread 
of  the  Establishment,  and  my  own  as  well,  were  about  to 
avow  himself  the  subject  and  slave  of  an  Italian  bishop." 

John  Storm  came  back  from  the  door. 

"  What  you  are  saying,  sir,  requires  that  I  should  be  plain 
spoken.  In  giving  up  my  curacy  I  am  not  leaving  the 
Church  of  England ;  I  am  only  leaving  you." 

"  I  am  so  glad,  so  relieved  !  " 

"  I  am  leaving  you  because  I  can  not  live  with  you  any 
longer,  because  the  atmosphere  you  breathe  is  impossible  to 
me,  because  your  religion  is  not  my  religion,  or  your  God 
my  God  I" 


114  THE   CHRISTIAN. 

"  You  surprise  me.     What  have  I  done  ?  " 

"  A  mouth  ago  I  asked  you  to  set  your  face  as  a  clerg-y- 
man  against  the  shameful  and  immoral  marriage  of  a  man 
of  scandalous  reputation,  but  you  refused  ;  you  excused  the 
man  and  sided  with  him.  This  morning  you  thought  it 
necessary  to  investigate  in  public  the  case  of  one  of  that 
man's  victims,  and  you  sided  with  the  man  again — you 
denied  to  the  girl  the  right  even  to  mention  the  scoundrel's 
name ! " 

"  How  differently  we  see  tilings !  Do  you  know  I 
thought  my  examination  of  the  poor  3'ouug  thing  was  mer- 
ciful to  the  point  of  gentleness  !  And  that,  I  may  tell  you — 
notwithstanding  the  female  volcano  who  came  down  on 
me — was  the  view  of  the  board  and  of  his  lordship  the 
chairman." 

"Then  I  am  sorry  to  differ  from  them.  I  thought  it 
unnecessary  and  unmanly  and  brutal,  and  even  blas- 
phemous ! " 

"  Mr.  Storm  !     Do  you  know  what  you  are  saying  ?  " 

"Pei'fectly,  and  I  came  to  say  it." 

His  eyes  were  wild,  his  voice  was  hoarse ;  he  was  like  a 
man  breaking  the  bonds  of  a  tyrannical  slavery. 

"You  called  that  poor  child  a  prostitute  because  she  had 
wasted  the  good  gifts  which  God  had  given  her.  But  God 
has  given  good  gifts  to  you  also — gifts  of  intellect  and  elo- 
quence with  which  you  might  have  raised  the  fallen  and 
supported  the  weak,  and  defended  the  downtrodden  and 
comforted  the  broken-hearted — and  what  have  you  done 
with  them  ?  You  have  bai'tered  them  for  benefices,  and 
peddled  them  for  popularity ;  you  have  given  them  in 
exchange  for  money,  for  hou.ses,  for  furniture,  ft)r  things 
like  this — and  this — and  this !  You  have  sold  your  birth- 
right for  a  mess  of  pottage,  therefore  you  are  the  prostitute  ! " 

"  You're  not  yourself,  sir ;  leave  me,"  and,  crossing  the 
room,  the  canon  touched  the  bell. 

"Yes,  ten  tliousand  times  more  the  prostitute  tlian  that 
poor  fallen  girl  with  her  taint  of  blood  and  will !  There 
would  be  no  such  women  as  she  is  to  fall  victims  to  evil 
companionship  if  there  were  no  such  men  as  you  are  to 
excuse  their  betrayers  and  to  side  with  them.     Who  is  most 


THE   OUTER  WORLD.  115 

the  prostitute — the  woman  who  sells  her  body,  or  the  man 
who  sells  his  soul  ? " 

"  You're  mad,  sir  !     But  I  want  no  scene " 

"  You  are  the  worst  prostitute  on  the  streets  of  London, 
and  yet  you  are  in  the  Church,  in  the  pulpit,  and  you  call 
yourself  a  follower  of  the  One  who  forgave  the  woman  and 
shamed  the  hypocrites,  and  had  not  where  to  lay  his  head ! " 

But  the  canon  had  faced  about  and  fled  out  of  the  room. 

The  footman  came  in  answer  to  the  bell,  and,  finding  no 
one  but  John  Storm,  he  told  him  that  a  lady  was  M^aiting 
for  him  in  a  carriage  at  the  door. 

It  was  Mrs.  Callender.  She  had  come  to  say  that  she 
had  called  at  the  hospital  for  Polly  Love,  and  the  girl  had 
refused  to  go  to  the  home  at  Soho. 

"  But  whatever's  amiss  with  ye,  man  ?  "  she  said.  "  You 
might  have  seen  a  ghost !  " 

He  had  come  out  bareheaded,  carrying  his  hat  in  his 
hand. 

"It's  all  over,"  he  said.  "I've  waited  weeks  and  weeks 
for  it,  but  it's  over  at  last.  It  was  of  no  use  mincing  mat- 
ters, so  I  spoke  out." 

His  red  eyes  were  ablaze,  but  a  great  load  seemed  to  be 
lifted  off  his  mind,  and  his  soul  seamed  to  exult. 

"I  have  told  him  I  naust  leave  him,  and  I  am  to  go 
immediately.  The  disease  was  dire,  and  the  remedy  had  to 
be  dire  also." 

The  old  lady  was  holding  her  breath  and  watching  his 
flushed  face  with  strained  attention. 

"  And  what  may  ye  be  going  to  do  now  ? " 

"  To  become  a  religious  in  something  more  than  the 
name ;  to  leave  the  world  altogether  with  its  idleness  and 
pomp  and  hypocrisy  and  unreality." 

"  Get  yoursel'  some  flesh  on  your  bones  first,  man.  It's 
easy  to  see  ye've  no  been  sleeping  or  eating  these  days  and 
days  together." 

"  That's  nothing — nothing  at  all.  God  can  not  take  half 
your  soul.     You  must  give  yourself  entirely." 

"  Eh,  laddie,  laddie,  I  feared  me  this  was  what  ye  were 
coming  til.  But  a  man  can  not  bury  himself  before  he  is 
dead.     He  may  bury  the  half  of  himself,  but  is  it  the  better 


IIQ  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

half  ?  What  of  his  thoughts— his  wandering  thoughts  ? 
Choose  for  yoursel',  though,  and  if  you  must  go — if  you 
must  hide  yoursel'  forever,  and  this  is  the  last  I'm  to  see 
of  ye — ye  may  kiss  me,  laddie — I'm  old  enough,  sm-ely. 
— Go  on,  James,  man,  what  for  are  3'e  sitting  up  there 
staring  ? " 

When  John  Storm  returned  to  his  room  he  found  a 
letter  from  Parson  Quayle.  It  was  a  good-natured,  cack- 
ling epistle,  full  of  sweet  nothings  about  Glory  and  the 
hospital,  about  Peel  and  the  discovery  of  ancient  ruins  in 
the  graveyai'ds  of  the  treen  chapels,  but  it  closed  with  this 
postscript : 

"You  will  remember  old  Chaise,  a  sort  of  itinerant  beg- 
gar and  the  privileged  pet  of  everybody.  The  silly  old 
gawk  has  got  hold  of  your  father  and  has  actually  made 
the  old  man  believe  that  you  are  bewitched !  Some  one  has 
put  the  evil  eye  on  you— some  woman  it  would  seem — and 
that  is  the  reason  why  you  have  broken  away  and  behaved 
so  strangely  !  It  is  most  extraordinary.  That  such  a  fool- 
ish superstition  should  have  taken  hold  of  a  man  like  your 
father  is  really  quite  astonishing,  but  if  it  will  only  soften 
his  rancour  against  you  and  help  to  restore  peace  we  may 
perhaps  forgive  the  distrust  of  Providence  and  the  outrage 
on  common  sense.  All's  well  that  ends  well,  you  know, 
and  we  shall  all  be  happy." 


XIX. 

"  Martha's. 

"Lost,  stolen,  or  STRAYED^a  man,  a  clergyman,  an- 
swers to  the  name  of  John  Storm.  Or  rather  he  does  not 
answer,  having  allowed  himself  to  be  written  to  twice  with- 
out making  so  mucli  as  a  yap  or  a  yowl  by  way  of  reply. 
Last  seen  six  days  ago,  Avhen  he  was  suffering  from  tJie 
sulks,  after  being  in  a  de'il  of  a  temper,  with  a  helijless  and 
innocent  maiden  who  'doesn't  know  nothin','  that  can  have 
given  him  offence.  Any  one  giving  information,  of  his 
welfare  and  whereabouts  to  the  said  H.  and  I,  M.  will  be 
generously  and  appropriately  rewarded. 


THE   OUTER  WORLD.  117 

"  But,  soberly,  my  deai*  John  Storm,  what  has  become  of 
you  ?  Where  are  you,  and  whatever  have  you  been  doing 
since  the  day  of  the  dreadful  inquisition  ?  Frightful 
rumours  are  flying  through  the  air  like  knives,  and  they 
cut  and  wound  a  poor  girl  woefully.  Therefore  be  good 
enough  to  reply  by  return  of  post — and  in  person. 

"Meantime  please  accept  it  as  a  proof  of  my  eternal 
regard  that  after  two  knock-down  blows  received  in  silence 
I  am  once  more  coming  up  smiling.  Know,  then,  that  Mr. 
Drake  has  justified  all  expectations,  having  compelled  Lord 
Robert  to  provide  for  Polly,  who  is  now  safely  ensconced 
in  her  own  country  castle  somewhere  in  St.  John's  Wood, 
furnished  to  hand  with  servants  and  vassals  complete. 
Thus  you  will  be  charmed  to  observe  in  me  the  growth  of 
the  prophetic  instinct,  for  you  will  remember  my  positive 
prediction  that  if  a  girl  were  in  trouble,  and  the  necessity 
arose,  Mr.  Drake  would  be  the  first  to  help  her.  Of  course, 
he  had  a  great  deal  to  say  that  was  as  sweet  as  syrup  on  the 
loyalty  of  my  own  friendship  also,  and  he  expended  much 
beautiful  rhetoric  on  yourself  as  well.  It  seems  that  you 
are  one  of  those  who  follow  the  impulse  of  the  heart  en- 
tirely, while  the  rest  of  us  divide  our  allegiance  with  the 
head  ;  and  if  you  display  sometimes  the  severity  of  a  tyrant 
of  our  sex,  that  is  only  to  be  set  down  as  another  proof  of 
your  regard  and  of  the  elevation  of  the  pedestal  whereon 
you  desire  us  to  be  placed.  Thus  he  reconciles  me  to  the 
harmony  of  the  universe,  and  makes  all  things  easy  and 
agreeable. 

"This  being  the  case,  I  have  now  to  inform  you  that 
Polly's  baby  has  come,  having  hastened  his  arrival  (it  is  a 
man,  bless  it !)  owing  either  to  the  tears  or  the  terrors  of  the 
crocodile.  And  being  on  night  duty  now,  and  therefore 
at  liberty  from  6.30  to  8.30,  I  intend  to  pay  him  my  first 
call  of  ceremony  this  evening,  when  anybody  else  would  be 
welcome  to  accompany  me  who  might  be  willing  to  come 
to  his  shrine  of  innocence  and  love  in  the  spirit  of  the  wise 
men  of  the  East.  But,  lest  anybody  should  inquire  for  me 
at  the  hospital  at  the  first  of  the  hours  aforesaid,  this  is  to 
give  warning  that  the  White  Owl  has  expressly  forbidden 
all  intercourse  between  the  members  of  her  staff  and  the 


118  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

discharged  and  dislionoui-ed  mother.  Set  it  down  to  my 
spirit  of  contradiction  tliat  I  intend  to  disregard  the  mandate, 
though  I  am  only  too  well  aware  that  the  poor  discharged 
and  dishonoured  one  has  no  other  idea  of  friendship  than 
that  of  a  loyalty  in  which  she  shares  but  is  not  sharing. 
Of  course,  woman  is  born  to  such  selfishness  as  the  sparks 
fly  upward ;  but  if  I  should  ever  meet  with  a  man  who  isn't 
I  will  just  give  myself  up  to  him — body  and  soul  and  be- 
longings— unless  he  has  a  wife  or  other  encumbrance  al- 
ready and  is  booked  for  this  world,  and  in  that  event  I  will 
enter  into  my  own  recognisances  and  be  bound  over  to  him 
for  the  next.  Glory." 

At  six-thirty  that  evening  Glory  stood  waiting  in  the 
portico  of  the  hospital,  but  John  Storm  did  not  come.  At 
seven  she  was  ringing  at  the  bell  of  a  little  house  in  St. 
John's  Wood  that  stood  behind  a  high  wall  and  had  an  iron 
grating  in  the  garden  door.  The  bell  was  answered  by  a 
good-natured,  slack-looking  servant,  who  was  friendly,  and 
even  familiar  in  a  moment. 

"  Are  you  the  young  lady  from  the  hospital  ?  The  mis- 
sis told  me  about  you.  I'm  Liza,  and  come  upstairs —  Yes, 
doing  nicely,  thank  you,  both  of  'em  is — and  mind  your 
head,  miss." 

Polly  was  in  a  little  bandbox  of  a  bedroom,  looking 
more  pink  and  white  than  ever  against  the  linen  of  her 
frilled  pillow  slips.  By  the  bedside  a  woman  of  uncei'taiu 
age  in  deep  moui*ning,  with  little  twinkling  eyes  and  fat 
cheeks,  was  rocking  the  baby  on  her  knee  and  babbling 
over  it  in  words  of  maudlin  endearment. 

"  Bless  it,  'ow  it  do  notice  !     Boo-loo-loo  !  " 

Glory  leaned  over  the  little  one  and  pronounced  it  the 
prettiest  baby  she  had  ever  seen. 

"Syme  'ere,  miss.  There  ain't  sech  another  in  all  Lon- 
don !  It's  jest  the  sort  of  baby  you  can  love.  Pore  little 
thing,  it's  quite  took  to  me  already,  as  if  it  wanted  to  enkir- 
ridge  you,  my  dear." 

"This  is  Mrs.  Jupe,"  said  Polly,  "and  she's  going  to  take 
baby  to  Tnir.se." 

"  Boo-loo-loo-boo !     And   a   nice  new  cradle's  awaiting 


THE   OUTER  WORLD.  II9 

of  it  afront  of  the  fire  in  my  little  back  parlour.  Boo- 
loo  ! " 

"But  surely  you're  never  going-  to  part  with  your  baby  !  " 
said  Glory. 

"  Why,  what  do  you  suppose,  dear  ?  Do  you  think  I'm 
going  to  be  tied  to  a  child  all  my  days,  and  never  be  able  to 
go  anywhere  or  do  anything  or  amuse  myself  at  all  ?  " 

"Jest  that.  It'll  be  to  our  mootual  benefit,  as  I  said 
when  I  answered  your  advertisement." 

Glory  asked  the  woman  if  she  was  married  and  had  any 
children  of  her  own. 

"Me,  miss  ?  IVe  been  married  eleven  years,  and  I've 
allwiz  prayed  the  dear  Lord  to  gimme  childring.  Got  any  ? 
On'y  one  little  girl ;  but  I  want  to  adopt  another  from  the 
birth,  so  as  to  have  something  to  love  when  my  own's 
growed  ui3." 

Glory  supposed  that  Polly  could  see  her  baby  at  any 
time,  but  the  woman  answered  doubtfully  : 

"  Can  she  see  baby  ?  Well,  I  would  rather  not,  certingly. 
If  I  tyke  it  I  want  to  feel  it  is  syme  as  my  very  own  and  do 
my  dooty  by  it,  pore  thing  !  And  if  the  mother  were  com- 
ing and  going  I  should  allwiz  feel  as  she  'ad  the  first  claim." 

Polly  showed  no  interest  in  the  conversation  until  Mrs. 
Jupe  asked  for  the  name  of  her  "  friend,"  in  lieu  of  eighty 
pounds  that  were  to  be  paid  down  on  delivery  of  the  child. 

"  Come,  myke  up  your  mind,  my  dear,  and  let  me  tyke  it 
away  at  onct.  Give  me  'is  nyme,  that's  good  enough  for 
me." 

After  some  hesitation  Gloiy  gave  Lord  Robert's  name 
and  address,  and  the  woman  prepared  the  child  for  its  de- 
parture. 

"  Don't  tyke  on  so,  my  dear.  'Tain't  sech  a  great  crime, 
and  many  a  laidy  of  serciety  'as  done  worse." 

At  the  street  door  Glory  asked  Mrs.  Jupe  for  her  own 
address,  and  the  woman  gave  her  a  card,  saying  if  she  ever 
wanted  to  leave  the  hospital  it  would  be  easy  to  help  such  a 
fine-looking  young  woman  as  she  was  to  make  a  bit  of  liv- 
ing for  herself. 

Polly  recovered  speedily  from  the  trouble  of  the  child's 
departure,  and  presently  assumed  an  easy  and  almost  patron- 


120  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

izing-  tone  toward  Glory,  pretending  to  be  amused  and  even 
a  little  indignant  when  asked  how  soon  she  expected  to  be 
fit  for  business  again,  and  able  to  do  without  Lord  Robert's 
assistance. 

"  To  tell  you  the  truth,"  she  said,  "  I  was  as  much  to 
blame  as  he  was.  I  wanted  to  escape  from  the  drudgery  of 
the  hospital,  and  I  knew  he  would  take  me  when  the  time 
came." 

Glory  left  early,  vowing  in  her  heart  she  would  come  no 
more.  When  she  changed  her  omnibus  at  Piccadilly  the 
Circus  was  very  full  of  women. 

"  Letter  for  you,  nurse,"  said  the  porter  as  she  entered 
the  hospital.     It  was  from  John  Storm. 

"  Dear  Glory  :  I  have  at  length  decided  to  enter  the 
Brotherhood  at  Bishopsgate  Street,  and  I  am  to  go  into  the 
monastery  this  evening.  It  is  not  as  a  visitor  that  I  am 
going  this  time,  but  as  a  postulant  or  novice  and  in  the 
hope  of  becoming  worthy  in  due  course  to  take  the  vows  of 
lifelong  consecration.  Therefore  I  am  writing  to  you 
probably  for  the  last  time,  and  i^arting  from  you  perhaps 
forever. 

"  Since  we  came  up  to  London  together  I  have  suffered 
many  shocks  and  disappointments,  and  I  seem  to  have  been 
torn  in  ribbons.  My  cherished  dreams  have  proved  to  be 
delusions ;  the  palaces  I  had  built  up  for  myself  have 
turned  out  to  be  pasteboard,  gilt,  and  rubbish  ;  I  have  been 
robbed  of  all  my  jewels,  or  they  have  shown  themselves  to 
be  shingle  stones.  In  this  condition  of  shame  and  disil- 
lusionment I  am  now  resolved  to  escape  at  the  same  time 
from  the  world  and  from  myself,  for  I  am  tired  of  both 
alike,  and  already  I  feel  as  if  a  great  weight  had  been  lifted 
off  me. 

"  But  I  wish  to  s))eak  of  you.  You  must  have  thought  me 
cantankerous,  and  so  I  have  been  sometimes,  but  always  by 
conviction  and  on  principle.  I  could  not  countenance  the 
fasliionable  morality  that  is  corrupting  the  manhood  of  the 
laity,  or  endure  the  toleration  that  is  making  the  clergy 
thoroughly  wicked  ;  I  could  not  without  a  pang  see  you  cater 
to  the  world's  appetites  or  be  drawn  into  its  gaieties  and  fri- 


THE  OUTER  WORLD.  121 

volities  ;  and  it  was  agony  to  me  to  fear  that  a  girl  of  your 
pure  if  passionate  nature  might  perhaps  fall  a  victim  to  a 
gamester  in  life's  follies — an  actor  indulging  a  pastime — a 
mere  cheat. 

"  And  what  you  tell  me  of  your  friend's  altered  circum- 
stances does  not  relieve  me  of  such  anxieties.  The  man 
Avlio  has  deceived  a  girl  once  is  likely  to  deceive  her  again. 
Short  of  marriage  itself,  such  connections  should  be  cut  off 
entirely,  whatever  the  price.  When  they  are  maintained  in 
relations  of  liberty  the  victim  is  sure  to  be  further  victim- 
ized, and  her  last  state  is  always  worse  th^n  the  first. 

"  However,  I  do  not  wish  to  blame  anybody,  least  of  all 
you,  who  have  done  everything  for  the  best,  and  esjjecially 
now  when  I  am  parting  from  you  forever.  You  have  never 
realized  how  much  you  have  been  to  me,  and  I  doubt  if  I 
knew  it  myself  until  to-day.  You  know  how  I  was  brought 
up — with  a  solitary  old  man — God  be  with  him  ! — who  tried 
to  be  good  to  me  for  the  sake  of  his  ambitions,  and  to  love 
me  for  the  sake  of  his  revenge.  I  never  knew  my  mother, 
I  never  had  a  sister,  and  I  can  never  have  a  wife.  You 
were  all  three  to  me  and  yourself  besides.  There  were  no 
won\en  in  our  household,  and  you  stood  for  woman  in  my 
life.  I  have  never  told  you  this  before,  but  now  I  tell  it  as 
a  dying  man  whispers  his  secret  with  his  parting  breath. 

"  I  have  written  my  letters  of  fax-ewell — one  to  my  father, 
asking  his  forgiveness  if  I  have  done  him  any  wrong ;  one 
to  my  uncle,  with  my  love  and  thanks ;  and  one  to  your  good 
old  grandfather,  giving  up  my  solemn  and  sacred  trust  of 
you.  My  conduct  will  of  course  be  condemned  as  weak  and 
foolish  from  many  points  of  view,  but  by  my  departure  sorne 
difficulties  will  be  removed,  and  for  the  rest  I  have  come  to 
see  that  everything  is  done  by  the  spirit  and  nothing  by  the 
flesh,  and  that  by  prayer  and  fasting  I  can  help  and  protect 
you  more  than  by  counsel  and  advice.  Thus  everything  is 
for  the  best. 

"  The  rule  under  which  the  Brothers  live  in  community 
f  Drbids  them  to  write  and  receive  letters  without  special  ijer- 
laission,  or  even  to  think  too  constantly  of  the  world  out- 
^  ide  ;  and  now  that  I  am  on  the  eve  of  that  new  life,  mem- 
fries  of  the  old  one  keep  crowding  on  me  as  on  a  drowning 
9 


t22  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

man.  'But  they  are  all  of  one  period — the  days  when  we 
were  at  Peel  in  your  sweet  little  island,  before  the  vain  and 
cruel  world  came  in  between  us,  when  you  were  a  simjjle, 
merry  girl,  and  I  was  little  more  than  a  happy  boy,  and  we 
went  ijlunging  and  laughing  through  your  bi-ight  blue  sea 
together. 

"  But  earth's  joys  grow  very  dim  and  its  glories  are  fading. 
That  also  is  for  the  best.  I  have  my  Koh-i-noor — my  desire 
to  depart  and  surrender  my  life  to  God.        John  Storm." 

"Anything  wrong,  nurse  ?  Feeling  ill,  ain't  ye  ?  Only 
dizzy  a  bit  ?     Unpleasant  news  from  home,  perhaps  ? " 

"  No,  something  else.     Let  me  sit  in  your  room,  porter." 

She  read  the  letter  again  and  again,  until  the  words 
seemed  blurred  and  the  lines  irregular  as  a  spider's  web. 
Then  she  thought :  "  We  can  not  part  forever  like  this.  I 
must  see  him  again  whatever  happens.  Perhaps  he  has  not 
yet  gone." 

It  was  now  half -past  eight  and  time  to  go  on  duty,  but 
she  went  upstairs  to  Sister  All  worthy  and  asked  for  an 
hour's  further  leave.  The  request  was  promptly  refused. 
She  went  downstairs  to  the  matron  and  asked  for  half  an 
hour,  only  that  she  might  see  a  friend  aw^ay  on  a  long  jour- 
ney, and  that  was  refused  too.  Then  she  tightened  her  quiv- 
ering lips,  returned  to  the  porter's  room,  fixed  her  bonnet  on 
before  the  scratched  pier-glass,  and  boldly  walked  out  of  the 
hospital. 

It  was  now  quite  dark  and  the  fashionable  dinner  hour 
of  Belgravia,  and  as  she  hurried  through  the  streets  manj' 
crested  and  coroneted  carriages  drew  up  at  the  great  man- 
sions and  discharged  theii'  occupants  in  evening  dress.  The 
canon's  house  was  brilliantlj-  lighted,  and  when  the  door 
was  opened  in  answer  to  her  knock  she  could  see  the  canon 
himself  at  the  head  of  his  own  detachment  of  diners  coming 
downstairs  with  a  lady  in  Avhite  silk  chatting  affably  on  his 
arm. 

"  Is  Mr.  Storm  at  home  ? " 

The  footman,  in  powdered  wig  and  white  cotton  glovt 
answered  haltingly,  "  If  it  is — er — anything  aboui  ; ' 
pital,  miss,  Mr — er — Golightly  will  attend." 


» 


THE   OUTER  WORLD.  123 

"  No,  it  is  Mr.  Storm  himself  I  Avisli  to  see." 

"  Gorn  ! "  said  the  footman,  and  he  shut  the  door  in  her 
face. 

She  had  qn  impulse  to  hammer  on  the  door  with  her 
hand,  and  command  the  flunky  to  go  down  on  his  knees 
and  beg  her  pardon.  But  what  was  the  good  ?  She  had  no 
time  to  think  of  herself  now. 

As  a  last  resource  she  Avould  go  to  Bishopsgate.  How 
dense  the  traffic  seemed  to  he  at  Victoria !  She  had  never 
felt  so  helpless  before. 

It  was  better  in  the  city,  and  as  she  walked  eastward,  in 
the  direction  indicated  by  a  policeman,  every  step  brought 
her  into  quieter  streets.  She  was  now  in  that  part  of  Lon- 
don which  is  the  world's  busiest  market-place  by  day,  but  is 
shut  up  and  deserted  at  night.  Her  light  footsteps  echoed 
against  the  shutters  of  the  shops.  The  moon  had  risen,  and 
she  could  see  far  down  the  empty  street. 

She  found  the  j)lace  at  last.  It  was  one  of  London's 
weather-beaten  old  churches,  shouldered  by  shops  on  either 
hand,  and  almost  pushed  back  by  the  tide  of  traffic.  There 
was  an  iron  gate  at  the  side,  leading  by  an  arched  passage 
to  a  little  courtyard,  which  was  bounded  by  two  high  blank 
walls,  by  the  back  wall  of  the  church,  and  by  the  front  of  a 
large  house  with  a  small  doorway  and  many  small  win- 
dows. In  the  middle  of  the  courtyard  there  was  a  tree 
with  a  wooden  seat  i-ound  its  trunk. 

And  being  there,  she  felt  afraid  and  almost  wished  she 
had  not  come.  The  church  was  dimly  lighted,  and  she 
thought  perhaps  the  cleaners  were  within.  But  presently 
there  was  a  sound  of  singing,  in  men's  voices  only,  and 
without  any  kind  of  musical  accompaniment.  Just  then 
the  clock  in  the  steeple  struck  nine,  and  chimes  began  to 
play: 

Days  and  moments  quickly  flying. 

The  singing  came  to  an  end,  and  there  was  some  low,  in- 
articulate droning,  and  then  a  general  "Amen."  The  ham- 
mer of  the  bell  continued  to  beat  out  its  hymn,  and  Glory 
stood  under  the  shadow  of  the  tree  to  collect  her  thoughts. 

Then  the  sacristy  door  opened  and  a  line  of  men  came 
out.     They  were  in  long  black  cassocks,  and  they  crossed 


124  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

the  courtyard  from  the  church  to  the  house  with  the  meas- 
ured and  hasty  step  of  monks,  and  with  their  hands  clasped 
at  their  breasts.  Almost  at  the  end  of  the  line,  walking 
with  an  old  man  whose  tread  was  heavy,  there  was  a  younger 
one  who  was  bareheaded,  and  who  did  not  wear  the  cassock. 
The  moon  threw  a  light  on  his  face,  which  looked  pale  and 
worn.     It  was  John  Storm. 

Glory  gave  a  faint  cry,  a  gasp,  and  he  turned  round  as  if 
startled. 

"  Only  the  creaking  of  the  sycamore,"  said  the  Superior. 
And  then  the  mysterious  shadows  took  them ;  they  passed 
into  the  house,  the  door  was  closed,  and  she  was  alone  with 
the  chimes : 

Days  Jind  moments  quickly  flying, 
Blend  the  living  with  the  dead. 

Glory's  strength  had  deserted  her,  and  she  went  away  as 
she  came.  When  she  got  back  to  Victoria,  she  felt  for  the 
first  time  as  if  her  own  little  life  had  been  swallowed  up  in 
the  turmoil  of  London,  and  she  had  gone  down  to  the  cold 
depths  of  an  icy  sea. 

It  was  a  quarter  to  ten  when  she  returned  to  the  ward, 
and  the  matron,  with  her  dog  on  her  lap,  was  waiting  to 
receive  her. 

"  Didn't  I  tell  you  that  you  could  not  go  out  to-night  ? " 

"  Yes,  ma'am,"  said  Glory. 

"  Then  how  did  you  dare  to  go  ? " 

Glory  looked  at  her  unwaveringly,  with  glittering  eyes 
that  seemed  to  smile,  whereupon  the  matron  picked  up  her 
dog,  gathered  up  her  train,  and  swept  out  of  the  ward, 
saying : 

"  Nurse,  you  can  leave  me  at  the  end  of  your  term  ;  and 
you  need  never  cross  the  doors  of  this  institution  again." 

Then  Glory,  who  had  all  niglit  wanted  to  cry,  burst  into 
laughter.  The  ward  Sister  reproved  her,  but  she  laughed  in 
the  woman's  fat  face,  and  would  have  given  worlds  to 
slap  it. 

There  was  not  a  nurse  in  the  hospital  who  showed  more 
bright  and  cheerful  spirits  when  the  patients  were  being 
prepared   for  the  night.      But  next  morning,  in  the  gray 


THE  OUTER  WOELD.  125 

dawn,  when  she  had  dragged  herself  to  bed.  and  was  able 
at  length  to  be  alone,  she  beat  the  pillows  with  both  hands 
and  sobbed  in  her  loneliness  and  shame. 


XX. 

But  youth  is  rich  in  hope,  and  at  noon,  when  Glory 
awoke,  the  thought  of  Di*ake  flashed  upon  her  like  light  in 
a  dark  place.  He  had  compelled  Lord  Robert  to  assist  Polly 
in  a  worse  extremity,  and  he  would  assist  her  in  her  present 
predicament.  How  often  he  had  hinted  that  the  hospital 
was  not  good  enough  for  her,  and  that  some  day  and  some- 
where'Fate  would  find  other  work  for  her  and  another 
sphere.  The  time  had  come  ;  she  would  appeal  to  him,  and 
he  would  hasten  to  help  hei". 

She  began  to  revive  the  magnificent  dreams  that  had 
floated  in  her  mind  for  months.  No  need  to  tell  the  people 
at  home  of  her  dismissal  and  disgrace  ;  no  need  to  go  back 
to  the  island.  She  would  be  sonaebody  in  her  own  right  yet. 
Of  course,  she  would  have  to  study,  to  struggle,  to  endure 
disappointments,  but  she  would  triumjih  in  the  end.  And 
when  at  length  she  was  great  and  famous  she  would  be  good 
to  other  poor  girls ;  and  as  often  as  she  thought  of  John 
Storm  in  his  solitude  in  his  cell,  though  there  might  be  a 
pang,  a  red  stream  running  somewhere  within,  she  would 
comfort  herself  with  the  thought  that  she,  too,  was  doing 
her  best ;  she,  too,  had  her  j)lace,  and  it  was  a  useful  and 
worthy  one. 

Before  that  time  came,  however,  there  would  be  managers 
to  influence  and  engagements  to  seek,  and  perhaps  teachers 
to  pay  for.  But  Drake  was  rich  and  generous  and  powerful ; 
he  had  a  g-reat  opinion  of  her  talents,  and  he  would  stop  at 
nothing. 

Leaping  out  of  bed,  she  sat  down  at  the  table  as  she  was 
and  wrote  to  him  : 

"  Dear  Mr.  Drake  :  Try  to  see  me  to-night.  I  want 
your  advice  immediately.  What  do  you  think  ?  I  have  got 
myself  '  noticed  '  at  last,  and  as  a  consequence  I  am  to  leave 
at  the  end  of  my  term.  So  things  are  urgent,  you  see.  I 
'  wave  my  lily  hand '  to  you.  Glory. 


126  THE   CHRISTIAN. 

"P.  S. — To  save  time  I  suggest  the  hour  and  the  place  : 
eight  o'clock,  St.  James's  Park,  by  the  bridge  going  down 
from  Marlborough  House." 

Drake  received  this  note  as  he  was  sitting  alone  in  his 
chambers  smoking  a  cigarette  after  drinking  a  cup  of  tea,  in 
that  hour  of  glamour  that  is  between  the  lights.  It  seemed 
to  bring  with  it  a  secret  breath  of  passion  out  of  the  atmos- 
phere in  which  it  had  been  written.  At  the  first  impulse  it 
went  up  to  his  lips,  but  at  the  next  moment  he  was  smitten 
by  the  memory  of  something,  and  he  thought :  "  I  will  do 
what  is  right;  I  will  play  the  game  fair." 

He  dined  that  night  with  a  group  of  civil  servants  at  his 
club  in  St.  James's  Street,  but  at  a  quarter  to  eight,  notwith- 
standing some  playful  bantering,  he  put  on  his  overcoat 
and  turned  toward  the  park.  The  autumn  night  was  soft 
and  peaceful ;  the  stars  were  out  and  the  moon  had  risen  ;  a 
fragrant  mist  came  up  from  the  lake,  and  the  smoke  of  his 
cigar  was  hardly  troubled  by  the  breeze  that  pattered  the 
withered  tassels  of  the  laburnums.  Big  Ben  was  striking 
eight  as  he  reached  the  end  of  the  little  bridge,  and  almost 
immediately  afterward  he  was  aware  of  soft  and  hurrying 
footsteps  approaching  him. 

Glory  had  come  down  by  the  Mall.  The  whispering  of 
the  big  white  trees  in  the  moonlight  was  like  company,  and 
she  sang  to  hei'self  as  she  walked.  Her  heart  seemed  to 
have  gone  into  her  heels  since  yesterday,  for  her  step  was 
light  and  sometimes  she  ran  a  few  paces.  She  arrived  out 
of  breath  as  the  great  clock  was  striking,  and  seeing  the  figure 
of  a  gentleman  in  evening  dress  by  the  end  of  the  bridge, 
she  stopped  to  collect  herself. 

Her  hand  was  hot  and  a  little  damp  when  Drake  took  it, 
and  her  face  was  somewhat  flushed.  She  liatl  all  at  once 
become  ashamed  that  she  had  come  to  ask  him  for  anything, 
and  she  took  out  her  pocket-handkerchief  and  began  to  roll 
it  in  her  palms.  He  misunderstood  her  agitation,  and  try- 
ing to  cover  it  he  ofi'ered  lier  his  arm  and  took  her  across  the 
bridge,  and  they  turned  westward  down  the  path  that  runs 
along  tlie  margin  of  tlie  lake. 

"  Mr.  Storm  has  gone,"  she  said,  thinking  to  explain  herself. 


THE  OUTER  WORLD.  127 

"  I  kuow,"  he  answered. 

"  Is  it  generally  known,  then  ? " 

"  I  had  a  letter  from  him  yesterday." 

"  Was  it  about  me  ? " 

"Yes." 

"  You  must  not  mind  if  he  says  things,  you  kuow." 

"  I  don't,  Glory.  I  set  them  down  to  the  egotism  of  the 
religious  man.  The  religious  man  can  not  believe  that 
anybody  can  live  a  moral  life  and  act  on  principle  except 
from  the  religious  impulse.  ...  I  suppose  he  has  warned 
you  against  me,  hasn't  he  ? " 

"  Well — yes." 

"I'm  at  a  loss  to  know  what  I've  done  to  deserve  it. 
But  time  must  justify  me.  I  am  not  a  religious  man  my- 
self, you  kuow,  though  I  hate  to  talk  of  it.  To  tell  you  the 
truth,  I  think  the  religious  idea  a  monstrous  egotism  alto- 
gether, and  the  love  of  God  mereh"  the  love  of  self.  Still, 
you  must  judge  for  yourself,  Glory." 

"Are  we  not  wasting  our  time  a  little  ?''  she  said.  "I 
am  here ;  isn't  that  proof  enough  of  my  opinion  ? "  And 
then  in  an  agitated  whisper  she  added:  "I  have  only  half 
an  hour,  the  gates  will  be  closing,  and  I  want  to  ask  your 
advice,  you  know.  You  remember  what  I  told  you  in  my 
letter  ? " 

He  patted  the  hand  on  his  arm  and  said,  "  Tell  me  how 
it  happened." 

She  told  him  everything,  with  many  pauses,  expecting 
every  moment  that  he  would  break  in  upon  her  and  say, 
"  Why  didn't  you  box  the  woman's  ears  ? "  or  perhaps  laugh 
and  assure  her  that  it  did  not  matter  in  the  least,  and  she 
was  making  too  much  of  a  mere  bagatelle.  But  he  listened 
to  every  syllable,  and  after  she  had  finished  there  was  silence 
for  a  moment.  Then  he  said  :  "  I'm  sorry — very  sorry  ;  in 
fact,  I  am  much  troubled  about  it." 

Her  nerves  were  throbbing  hai'd  and  her  hand  on  his 
arm  was  twitching. 

"  If  you  had  left  of  your  own  accord  after  that  scene  in 
the  board  room,  it  would  have  been  so  different— so  easy  for 
me  to  help  you !  " 

"  How  ■{ " 


128  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

"  I  should  have  spoken  to  my  chief — he  is  a  governor  of 
many  hospitals— and  said,  'A  young  friend  of  mine,  a  nurse, 
is  uncomfortable  in  her  present  place  and  would  like  to 
change  her  hospital.'  It  would  have  been  no  sooner  said 
than  done.  But  now — now  there  is  the  black  book  against 
you,  and  God  knows  if  .  .  .  In  fact,  somebodj^  has  laid  a 
trap  for  you,  Glory,  intending  to  get  rid  of  you  at  the  first 
opportunity,  and  you  seem  to  have  walked  straight  into  it." 

She  felt  stunned.  "  He  has  forgotten  all  he  has  said  to 
me,"  she  thought.  In  a  feeble,  expressionless  voice  she 
asked : 

"  But  what  am  I  to  do  now^  ? " 

"  Let  me  think." 

They  walked  some  steps  in  silence.  "  He  is  turning  it 
over,"  she  thought.     "  He  will  tell  me  how  to  begin." 

He  stopped,  as  if  seized  by  a  new  idea. 

"  Did  you  tell  them  where  you  had  been  ? " 

"  No,"  she  replied,  in  the  same  weak  voice. 

"  But  why  not  do  so  ?  There  is  hope  in  that.  The  chap- 
lain was  your  friend — your  only  friend  in  London,  so  far  as 
they  know.  Surely  that  is  an  extenuating  circumstance  so 
plausible " 

"  But  I  can  not " 

"  I  know  it  is  bitter  to  explain — to  apologize — and  if  I 
can  do  it  for  you " 

"  I  will  not  allow  it !  "  she  said.  Her  lips  were  set,  and 
her  breath  was  coming  throi;gh  them  in  gusts. 

"  It  is  a  pity  to  allow  the  hospitals  to  be  closed  against 
you.  Nursing  is  a  good  profession.  Glory — even  a  fashion- 
able one.     It  is  true  womanly  work,  and " 

"That  was  what  he  .said." 

"  Who  ?  John  Storm  ?  He  was  right.  Indeed,  he  was 
an  entirely  honourable  and  upright  man,  and " 

"  But  you  always  seemed  to  say  there  were  other  things 

more  worthy  of  a  girl,  and  if  she  had  a  mind  to But 

no  matter.  We  needn't  talk  about  the  hospitals  any  longer. 
I  am  not  fit  for  them  and  shall  never  go  back  to  them,  what- 
ever happens." 

He  looked  down  at  her.  She  was  biting  her  lips,  and  the 
tears  were  gathering  in  her  eyes. 


THE   OUTER  WORLD.  129 

"Well,  well,  never  mind,  dear,"  he  said,  and  he  patted 
her  hand  again. 

The  moon  had  begun  to  waiie,  and  out  of  the  dark 
shadows  they  walked  in  they  could  see  the  lines  of  houses 
lit  up  all  around. 

"  Look,"  she  said,  with  a  feeble  laugh,  "  in  all  this  great 
busy  London  is  there  nothing  else  I'm  fit  for  ?  " 

"  You  ai'e  fit  for  anything  in  the  world,  my  dear,"  he  an- 
swered. 

Her  nerves  were  throbbing  harder  than  ever.  "  Pei'haps 
he  doesn't  remember,"  she  thought.  Should  she  tell  him 
what  he  said  so  often  about  her  talents,  and  how  much  she 
might  be  able  to  make  of  them  ? 

"  Is  there  nothing  a  girl  can  do  except  go  down  on  her 
knees  to  a  woman  ?  " 

He  laughed  and  talked  some  nonsense  about  the  kneel- 
ing. "Poor  little  woman,  she  doesn't  know  what  she  is 
doing,"  he  thought. 

"I  shouldn't  mind  what  people  thought  of  me,"  she  said, 
"  not  even  my  own  people,  who  have  been  brought  up  with 
such  narrow  ideas,  you  know.  They  might  think  what  they 
liked,  if  I  felt  I  was  in  the  right  i^lace  at  last — the  right 
place  for  me,  I  mean." 

Her  nervovis  fingers  were  involuntarily  clutching  at  his 
coat  sleeve.     "  Now,  any  other  man "  he  thought. 

She  began  to  cry.  "  He  loon't  remember,"  she  told  her- 
self. "  It  was  only  his  way  of  being  agreeable  when  he 
praised  me  and  predicted  such  wonderful  things.  And  now 
his  good  breeding  will  not  allow  him  to  tell  me  there  are 
hundreds,  thousands,  tens  of  thousands  of  girls  in  London 
as  likely  to " 

"Come,  you  mustn't  cry.  Glory.  It's  not  so  bad  as 
that." 

She  had  never  seemed  to  him  so  beautiful,  and  he  wanted 
to  take  her  in  his  arms  and  comfort  her. 

"  I  had  no  one  but  you  to  come  to,"  she  murmured  in  her 
confusion.  But  she  was  thinking :  "  Why  didn't  you  stop 
me  before  ?    Why  have  you  let  me  go  on  all  these  months  ? " 

"  I  must  tvj  to  think  of  something,  and  I'll  speak  to  my 
friend  Rosa — Miss  Macquarrie,  you  know." 


130    -  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

"  You  are  a  man,"  said  Glory,  "  and  I  thought  per- 
haps  "     But  she  could  not  speak  of  her  fool's  j^aradise 

now,  she  was  so  deeply  ashamed  and  abased. 

"  That's  just  the  difficulty,  my  dear.  If  I  were  not  a  man, 
I  might  so  easily  help  you." 

What  did  he  mean  ?  The  frogs  kept  croaking  at  the 
margin  of  the  lake,  disturbed  by  the  sound  of  their  foot- 
steps. 

"Whatever  you  were  to  tell  me  to  do  I  should  do  it,"  she 
said,  in  the  same  confused  murmur.  She  was  ruining  her- 
self with  every  word  she  uttered. 

He  drew  up  and  stood  before  her,  so  close  that  she  could 
feel  his  breath  on  her  face.  "  My  dear  Glory,"  he  said  pas- 
sionately, "don't  think  it  isn't  terrible  to  me  to  renounce  the 
happiness  of  helping  you,  but  I  must  not,  I  dare  not,  I  will 
not  take  it." 

She  could  scarcely  breathe  for  the  shame  that  took  sud- 
den hold  of  her. 

"Heaven  knows  I  would  give  anything  to  have  the  joy 
of  looking  after  your  happiness,  dear,  but  I  should  despise 
myself  forever  if  I  took  advantage  of  your  circumstances." 

Good  God  !  What  did  he  think  she  had  been  asking 
of  him  ? 

"  I  am  thinking  of  yourself,  Glory,  because  I  want  to 
esteem  you  and  honour  you,  and  because  your  good  name  is 
above  everything  else— everything  else  in  the  world." 

Her  shame  was  now  abject.  It  stilled  her,  deafened  her, 
blinded  her.     She  could  not  speak  or  hear  or  see. 

He  took  her  hand  and  pressed  it. 

"Let  me  go,"  she  stammered. 

"  Stay- — do  not  go  yet !  " 

"  Let  me  go,  will  you  ? " 

"  One  moment " 

But  with  a  cry  like  the  cry  of  a  startled  bird  she  disap- 
peared in  the  shadow  of  the  tree's. 

He  stood  a  moment  where  she  had  loft  him.  tinarlin^  in 
every  nerve,  wanting  to  ft.llow  her,  and  overt;;ke  lie-r,  an.; 
kiss  her,  and  abandon  everything.  But  \w  buttfmed  up  lii  • 
overcoat  and  turned  away,  telling  himself  that  whaunu  ; 
another  man  might  have  done  in  the  same  case  he  at  lea^' 


THE  OUTER  WORLD.  131 

had  done  rightly,  and  that  men  like  John  Storm  were 
wrong  if  they  thought  it  was  impossible  to  act  on  principle 
without  the  impulse  of  religion. 

Meanwhile  Glory  was  flying  through  the  darkness  and 
weeping  in  the  bitterness  of  her  disappointment  and  shame. 
The  big  trees  overhead  were  all  black  now  and  very  gaunt 
and  grim,  and  the  breeze  was  moaning  in  their  branches. 

"  I  had  disgrace  enough  already,"  she  thought ;  "  I 
might  have  spared  myself  a  degradation  like  this  ! '' 

Drake  had  supposed  that  she  came  to  plead  for  herself 
to-night  as  she  had  pleaded  for  Polly  a  week  ago.  How 
natural  that  he  should  think  so  !  How  natui^al  and  yet  how 
hideous ! 

"  I  hate  him  !     I  hate  him  !  "  she  thought. 

John  Storm  had  been  right.  In  their  heart  of  hearts 
these  men  of  society  had  only  one  idea  about  a  girl,  and  she 
had  stumbled  on  it  unawares.  They  never  thought  of  her 
as  a  friend  and  an  equal,  but  only  as  a  dependent  and  a 
plaything,  to  be  taken  or  left  as  they  liked. 

"  Oh,  how  shameful  to  be  a  woman — how  shameful,  how 
•shameful ! " 

And  Drake  had  renounced  her  !  In  the  hideous  tangle 
of  his  error  he  had  renounced  her !  For  honour's  sake,  and 
her  own  sake,  and  for  sake  of  his  character  as  a  gentleman 
— renounced  her!  Oh,  there  was  somebody  who  would 
never  have  renounced  her  whatever  had  happened,  and  yet 
she  had  driven  him  away,  and  he  was  gone  forever  ! 

"  I  hate  myself  !     I  hate  myself  !  " 

She  remembered  how  often  out  of  recklessness  and  dar- 
ing and  high  spirits,  but  without  a  thought  of  evil,  she  had 
broken  through  the  barrier  of  manners  and  given  Drake 
occasion  to  think  lightly  of  her— at  the  ball,  at  the  theatre, 
at  tea  in  his  chambers,  and  by  dressing  herself  up  as  a  man. 

"  I  hate  myself  !     I  hate  myself  ! " 

John  Storm  was  right,"  and  Drake  in  his  different  way 
was  right  too,  and  she  alone  had  been  to  blame.  But  Fate 
was  laughing  at  her,  and  the  jest  was  very,  very  cruel. 

"  No  matter.  It  is  all  for  the  best,"  she  thought.  She 
would  be  the  stronger  for  this  experience— the  stronger  and 
the  purer  too,  to  stand  alone  and  to  face  the  future. 


132  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

She  got  back  to  the  hospital  .iust  as  the  great  clock  of 
"Westminster  was  chiming  the  half -hour,  and  she  stood  a 
moment  on  the  steps  to  listen  to  it.  Only  half  an  hour  had 
passed,  and  yet  all  the  world  had  changed  ! 


XXI. 

It  was  the  last  day  of  Glory's  probation,  and,  dressed  in 
the  long  blue  ulster  in  which  she  came  from  the  Isle  of 
Man,  she  was  standing  in  the  matron's  room  waiting  for  her 
wages  and  discharge.  The  matron  was  sitting  sideways  at 
her  table,  with  her  dog  snarling  in  her  lap.  She  pointed  to 
a  tinj"  heap  of  gold  and  silver  and  to  a  foolscap  paper 
which  lay  beside  it. 

"  That  is  your  month's  salary,  nurse,  and  this  is  your 
'  character.'  The  '  character '  has  given  me  a  deal  of  trouble. 
I  have  done  all  I  could  for  you.  I  have  said  you  were 
bright  and  cheerful,  and  that  the  patients  liked  you.  I 
trust  I  have  not  committed  myself  too  far.'' 

Glory  gathered  uj)  tlie  money,  but  left  the  "  character '' 
untouched. 

"  You  need  not  be  anxious,  ma'am  ;  I  shall  not  require  it." 

"  Have  you  got  a  situation  ?  " 

"No." 

"  Then  whei-e  are  you  going  next  ? '' 

"  I  don't  know — yet.'' 

"  How  much  money  have  you  saved  ?  " 

"About  three  months'  wages." 

"  Only  three  pounds  altogether  !  " 

"  It  will  be  quite  .sufficient." 

"  What  friends  have  you  got  in  London  ?  " 

"  None — tliat  is  to  say — no,  none  whatever." 

"  Then  why  don't  you  go  back  to  your  island  ? " 

"  Because  I  don't  wish  to  be  a  burden  upon  my  people, 
and  because  earning  my  living  in  London  doesn't  depend 
on  the  will  or  tlie  whim  of  any  woman." 

"  That's  just  like  you.  I  might  have  dismissed  you  in- 
stantly, but  for  the  sake  of  the  cliaplain  I've  borne  with 
your  rudeness  and  irregularities,  and  even  tried  to  be  your 


THE   OUTER  WORLD.  133 

friend,  and  yet I  dare  say  you've  not  even  told  your 

people  why  you  are  leaving  the  hospital  ?  " 

"I  haven't — I  haven't  told  them  yet  that  I'm  leaving 
at  all." 

"  Then  I've  a  great  mind  to  do  it  for  you.  A  venture- 
some, headstrong  girl  who  flings  herself  on  London  is  in 
danger  of  ruin." 

"  You  needn't  trouble  youi'self,  ma'am,"  said  Glory,  open- 
ing the  door  to  go. 

"  Why  so  ?  "  said  the  matron. 

Glory  stood  at  her  full  heiglit  and  answered  : 

"  Because  if  you  said  that  of  me  thei-e  is  nobody  in  the 
world  would  believe  you  !  " 

Her  box  had  been  brought  down  to  the  hall,  and  the 
porter,  who  wished  to  be  friendly,  was  cording  it. 
^    "May  I  leave  it  in  your  care,  porter,  until  I  am  able  to 
call  for  it  ?" 

"Certingly,  nurse.  Sorry  you're  goin'.  I'll  miss  your 
face,  too." 

"  Thank  you.     I'll  call  for  my  letters  also." 

"  There's  one  just  come." 

It  was  fi-om  Aunt  Anna,  and  was  full  of  severe  reproof 
and  admonition.  Glory  was  not  to  think  of  leaving  the  hos- 
pital ;  she  must  try  to  be  content  with  the  condition  to  which 
God  had  called  her.  But  why  had  her  letters  been  so  few  of 
late  ?  and  how  did  it  occur  that  she  had  never  told  them 
about  Mr.  Storm  ?  He  had  gone  for  good  into  that  strange 
Brotherhood,  it  seemed.  Not  Catholic,  and  jet  a  monastery. 
Most  extraordinary !  They  were  all  eagerly  waiting  to  hear 
more  about  it.  Besides,  the  grandfather  was  anxious  on 
Glory's  account.  If  half  they  heard  was  true,  the  dangers 
of  London 

The  house-surgeon  came  down  to  say  good-bye.  He 
had  always  been  as  free  and  friendly  as  Sister  Allworthy 
would  allow.  They  stood  a  moment  at  the  door  to- 
gether. 

"  Where  are  you  going  to  ?  "  he  asked. 

"Anywhere — nowhere — everyAvhere;  to  'all  the  airts  the 
wind  can  blaw.' " 

It  was  a  clear,  bright  morning,  with  a  light,  keen  frost. 


134  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

On  looking'  out,  Glory  saw  that  flags  were  flying  on  the 
Ijublic  buildings. 

"  Why,  what's  going  on  ? "  she  said. 

"  Don't  you  know  ?  It's  the  ninth  of  November — Lord 
Mayor's  Day." 

She  laughed  merrily.  "A  good  omen.  I'm  the  female 
Dick  Whittington  !  Here  goes  for  it !  Good-bye,  hospital 
nursing. — By-bye,  doctor." 

She  dropped  him  a  playful  curtsy  at  the  bottom  of  the 
steps,  and  then  tripped  along  the  street. 

"  What  a  girl  it  is  !  "  he  thought.  "  And  what  is  to  be- 
come of  her  in  this  merciless  old  London  ? " 

She  had  taken  less  than  a  score  of  steps  from  the  hospital 
when  blinding  teardrops  leaped  from  her  eyes  and  ran  down 
her  cheeks ;  but  she  only  dropped  her  veil  and  walked  on 
boldly. 


I 


SECOND   BOOK. 
THE  RELIGIOUS  LIFE. 


I. 

The  Society  of  the  Holy  Gethsemane,  popularly  called 
the  Bishopsgate  Fathers,  was  one  of  the  many  conventual 
institutions  of  the  English  Church  which  came  as  a  sequel 
to  the  great  uijheaval  of  religious  feeling  known  as  the 
Tractarian  or  Oxford  movement.  Most  of  them  gave  way 
under  the  pressure  of  external  opposition,  some  of  them 
broke  down  under  the  sti'ain  of  internal  dissension,  and  a 
few  lived  on  as  secret  brotherhoods,  in  obedience  to  a  rule 
which  was  never  divulged  by  their  members,  who  were  said 
to  wear  a  hair  shirt  next  the  skin  and  to  scourge  themselves 
with  the  lash  of  discipline. 

Of  these  conventual  institutions  the  Society  of  the  Holy 
Gethsemane  had  been  one  of  the  earliest,  and  it  was  now 
quite  the  oldest,  although  it  had  challenged  not  only  the 
traditions  of  the  Reformed  Church  but  the  spirit  of  tlie  age 
itself  by  establishing  its  place  of  prayer  at  the  very  doors  of 
the  Stock  Exchange— that  ci-ater  of  volcanic  emotions,  that 
generating  house  for  the  electric  currents  of  the  world. 

Its  founder  and  first  Superior  had  been  a  man  of  iron 
will,  who  had  fought  his  way  through  ecclesiastical  courts 
and  popular  anger,  and  even  family  persecution,  which  had 
culminated  in  an  effort  of  his  own  brother  to  shut  him  up 
as  a  lunatic.  His  first  disciple  and  most  stanch  supporter 
had  been  the  Rev.  Charles  Frederic  Lamplugh,  a  fellow  of 
Corpus,  newly  called  to  orders  after  an  earlier  career  which 
had  been  devoted  to  the  woi^d,  and,  according  to  rumour, 
nearly  wrecked  in  an  affair  of  the  heart. 

135  "• 


136  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

When  the  community  had  proved  its  legal  right  to  exist 
within  the  Establishment  and  public  clamour  had  subsided, 
this  disciple  was  despatched  to  America,  and  there  he  estab- 
lished a  branch  brotherhood  and  became  great  and  famous. 
At  the  height  of  his  usefulness  and  renown  he  was  recalled, 
and  this  exercise  of  authority  provoked  a  universal  outcry 
among  his  admirers.  But  he  obeyed  ;  he  left  his  fame  and 
glory  in  America  and  returned  to  his  cell  in  London,  and 
was  no  more  heard  of  by  the  outer  world  until  the  founder 
of  the  society  died,  when  he  was  elected  by  the  brothers  to 
the  vacant  place  of  Superior. 

Father  Lamplugh  was  now  a  man  of  seventy,  so  gentle 
in  his  manner,  so  sweet  in  his  temper,  so  j)ious  in  his  life, 
that  when  he  stepped  out  of  his  room  to  greet  John  Storm 
on  his  arrival  in  Bishopsgate  Street  it  seemed  as  if  he 
brought  the  air  of  heaven  in  the  rustle  of  his  habit,  and  to 
have  come  from  the  holy  of  holies. 

"  Welcome  !  welcome  ! "  he  said.  "  I  knew  you  would 
come  to  us ;  I  have  been  expecting  you.  The  fli'st  time  I 
saw  you  I  said  to  myself :  '  Here  is  one  who  bears  a  burden  ; 
the  world  can  not  satisfy  the  cravings  of  a  heart  like  that ; 
he  will  surrender  it  some  day.' " 

Having  been  there  before,  though  in  "  Retreat "  only,  he 
entered  at  once  into  the  life  of  the  Brothei'hood.  It  was 
arranged  that  he  was  to  spend  some  two  or  three  months  as 
postulant,  then  to  take  the  vow  of  a  novice  for  one  year,  and 
finally,  if  he  proved  his  vocation,  to  seal  and  establish  his 
calling  by  taking  the  three  life  vows  of  poverty,  chastity, 
and  obedience. 

The  home  of  the  Brothei'hood  was  one  of  those  old  Loii- 
don  mansions  in  the  heart  of  the  city,  which  were  built  per- 
haps for  the  palaces  of  dignitaries  of  the  Clnirch,  and  were 
afterward  occupied  as  the  houses  and  offices  of  London  mer- 
chants and  their  apprentices,  and  have  eventually  descended 
to  the  condition  of  warehouses  and  stoi'cs  and  tenement 
dwellings  for  the  poor.  Its  structure  remained  the  same, 
but  the  brotliers  made  no  efi'ort  to  sujiport  its  ancient  grand- 
eur. Nothing  more  simple  can  be  imagined  tlian  the  ai>- 
pointments  of  their  monastery.     The  carved-oak  staircase 


THE  RELIGIOUS  LIFE.  I37 

was  there,  but  the  stairs  were  carpetless,  and  the  panelled 
and  parqueted  hall  was  bare  of  ornament,  except  for  a  pic- 
ture, in  a  pale  oaken  frame,  of  the  head  of  Christ  in  its 
crown  of  thorns.  A  plain  clock  in  a  deal  case  was  nailed 
up  under  the  floral  cornice,  and  beneath  it  there  hung  the 
text :  "  Lord,  who  shall  dwell  in  thy  tabernacle,  or  who 
shall  rest  upon  thy  noly  hill  ?  Even  he  that  leadeth  an  un- 
corrupt  life."  The  old  dining-room  was  now  the  commu- 
nity I'oom,  the  old  kitchen  was  the  refectory,  the  spacious 
bedrooms  were  partitioned  into  cells,  and  the  corridors, 
which  had  once  been  covered  with  tapestry,  were  now 
coated  with  whitewash,  and  bore  the  inscription,  "Silence 
in  the  passages." 

In  this  house  of  poverty  and  dignity,  of  past  grandeur 
and  present  simj^licity,  the  brothers  lived  in  community. 
They  were  forty  in  number,  consisting  of  ten  lay  brothers, 
ten  novices,  and  twenty  professed  Fathers.  The  lay  brothers, 
who  were  under  the  special  direction  of  their  own  Superior, 
the  Father  Minister,  and  were  rarely  allowed  to  go  into  the 
street,  had  to  clean  the  house  and  bake  the  bread  and  cook 
and  serve  the  food  which  was  delivered  at  the  door,  and 
thus,  in  that  narrow  circle  of  duty,  they  proved  their  piety 
by  their  devotion  to  a  lot  which  condemned  them  to  scour 
and  scrub  to  the  last  day  of  life.  The  clerical  brothers,  who 
were  nearly  all  in  full  orders,  enjoyed  a  more  varied  exist- 
ence, being  confined  to  the  precincts  only  during  a  part  of 
their  novitiate,  and  then  sent  out  at  the  will  of  the  Superior 
to  preach  in  the  churches  of  London  or  the  country,  and 
even  despatched  on  expeditions  to  establish  missions  abroad. 

The  lay  brothers  had  their  separate  retiring  room,  but 
John  Storm  met  his  clerical  housemates  on  the  night  of  his 
arrival.  It  was  the  hour  of  evening  recreation,  and  they  were 
gathered  in  the  community  room  for  reading  and  conversa- 
tion. The  stately  old  dining-room  was  as  destitute  as  the 
corridors  of  adornments  or  even  furniture.  Straw  arm- 
chairs stood  on  the  clean,  white  floor ;  a  bookcase,  containing 
many  volumes  of  the  Fathers,  lined  one  of  the  panelled 
walls ;  and  over  the  majestic  fireplace  there  was  a  plain  card 
with  the  inscription,  "  There  be  eunuchs  which  have  made 
themselves  eunuchs  for  the  kingdom  of  heaven's  sake." 
10 


138  THE  CHRISTIAN". 

The  brothers  gathered  about  him  and  examined  him 
with  a  cm'iosity  which  was  more  than  personal.  To  this 
group  of  men,  detached  from  life,  the  ari'ival  of  some  one 
from  the  outer  world  was  an  event  of  interest.  He  knew 
what  wars  had  been  waged,  what  epidemics  were  raging, 
what  Governments  had  risen  and  fallen.  He  might  not 
speak  of  these  things  in  casual  talk,  for  it  was  against  rule 
to  discuss,  for  its  own  sake,  what  had  been  seen  or  heard 
outside,  but  they  were  in  the  air  about  him,  and  they  were 
happening  on  the  other  side  of  the  wall. 

And  he  on  his  part  also  examined  his  housemates,  and 
tried  to  guess  what  manner  of  men  they  were  and  what  had 
brought  them  to  that  place.  They  were  men  of  all  ages, 
and  nearly  everj^  school  of  the  Church  had  sent  its  repre- 
sentatives. Here  was  the  pale  face  of  the  ascetic,  and  there 
the  guileless  eyes  of  the  saint.  Some  were  keen  and  alert, 
others  were  timid  and  slow\  All  wore  the  long  black  cas- 
sock of  the  community,  and  many  wore  the  rope  with  three 
knots.  They  spoke  little  of  the  world  outside,  but  it  was 
clear  that  they  could  not  dismiss  it  from  their  thoughts. 
Their  talk  was  cheerful,  and  the  Father  told  stories  of  his 
preaching  expeditions  which  provoked  some  laughter.  They 
had  no  newspapers  (except  one  well-known  High-Church 
organ)  and  no  games,  and  thei;e  was  no  smoking. 

The  bell  rang  for  supper,  and  they  went  down  to  the  re- 
fectory. It  was  a  large  apartment  in  the  basement,  and  it 
still  bore  the  emblems  of  its  ancient  service.  Over  the  great 
kitchen  ingle  there  was  yet  another  card  with  the  inscrip- 
tion, "  Neither  said  any  of  them  that  aught  of  the  things 
which  he  possessed  was  his  own,  but  they  had  all  things  in 
common."  A  table,  scoured  white,  ran  round  three  sides  of 
the  room,  tlie  seats  were  forms  without  backs,  and  there  was 
one  chair — the  Superior's  chair — in  the  middle. 

The  supper  consisted  of  porridge  and  milk  and  brown 
bread,  and  it  was  eaten  out  of  plates  and  cans  of  pewter. 
While  it  lasted  one  of  the  brothers,  seated  at  a  raised  desk, 
read  first  a  few  passages  of  Scri^jture,  and  then  some  pages 
of  a  secular  book  which  the  religious  were  tlius  hearing  at 
their  meals.  The  sujjpcr  was  hardly  over  wlien  the  bell 
rang  again.     It  was  time  for  Compline,  the  last  service  of 


THE  RELIGIOUS  LIFE.  139 

the  day,  and  the  brothers  foniied  in  procession  and  passed 
out  of  the  house,  across  the  courtyard,  into  the  little  church. 

The  old  place  was  dimly  lighted,  but  the  brothei's  oc- 
cupied the  chancel  only.  They  sat  in  two  companies  on 
opposite  sides  of  the  choir,  in  three  rows  of  stalls,  the  lay 
brothers  in  front,  the  novices  next,  and  the  Fathers  at  the 
back.  Each  side  had  its  leader  in  the  recitation  of  the 
prayers.  Tlie  Miserere  was  said  kneeling',  the  Psalms  were 
sung  with  frequent  pauses,  each  of  the  duration  of  the 
words  "Ave  Maria,"  producing  the  effect  of  a  broken  wail. 
The  service  was  short,  and  it  ended  with  "May  the  Lord 
Almighty  grant  us  a  quiet  night  and  a  perfect  end."  There 
was  another  stroke  of  the  bell,  and  the  brothers  returned 
to  the  house  in  silence. 

John  Storm  walked  with  the  Superior,  and  passing 
through  the  courtyard,  in  the  light  of  the  moon  that  had 
risen  while  they  were  at  prayers,  he  was  startled  by  the 
sound  of  something. 

"  Only  the  creaking  of  the  sycamore,"  said  the  Father. 

He  had  thought  it  was  the  voice  of  Glory,  but  he  had 
been  hearing  her  cry  throughout  the  service,  so  he  dis- 
missed the  circumstance  as  a  dream.  Half  an  hour  later 
the  household  had  retired  for  the  night,  the  lights  were  put 
out,  and  the  Society  of  the  Gethsemane  was  at  rest. 

John's  cell  was  on  the  topmost  floor,  next  to  the  quar- 
ters of  the  lay  brothers.  There  was  nothing  above  it  but 
a  high  lead  flat,  which  was  sometimes  used  by  the  religious 
as  watch-tower  and  breathing  place..  The  cell  was  a  nar- 
row room  with  bare  floor,  a  small  table,  one  chair,  a  pray- 
ing-stool, a  crucifix,  and  a  stump  bed,  having  a  straw 
pillow  and  a  crimson  covei'let  marked  with  a  large  white 
cro.ss. 

"  Here,"  he  thought,  "  my  journey  is  at  an  end.  This 
is  my  resting-place  for  life."  The  mighty  hand  of  the 
Church  was  on  him  and  he  felt  a  deep  peace.  He  was  like 
a  ship  that  had  been  tossed  at  sea  and  was  lying  quiet  in 
harbour  at  last. 

Without  w^as  the  Avorld,  the  fantastic  world,  forever 
changing ;  within  were  gentle  if  strict  rules  and  customs 
securely  fixed.    Without  was  the  ceaseless  ebb  and  flow  of 


140  THE  CHRISTIAX. 

the  financial  tide ;  within  were  content  and  sweet  poverty 
and  no  disturbing  fears.  Without  were  struggle  and  strife 
and  the  fever  of  gain ;  within  were  peace  and  happiness  and 
the  grand  mysteries  which  God  reveals  to  the  soul  in  soli- 
tude. 

He  began  to  pass  his  life  in  review  and  to  think  :  "  Well, 
it  is  all  over,  at  all  events.  I  shall  never  leave  this  place. 
Friends  who  forgive  me,  good-bye  !  And  foes  who  are  vm- 
forgiving,  good-bye  to  you  too  ! 

"And  the  world — the  great,  vain,  cruel,  hypocritical 
world — farewell  to  it  also !  Farewell  to  its  pomp  and  its 
glory  !     Farewell  to  life,  and  liberty,  and — love " 

The  wind  was  rustling  the  leaves  of  the  tree  in  the  court- 
yard, and  he  could  not  help  but  hear  again  the  voice  he  had 
heard  when  ci^ossing  from  the  church.  His  eyes  were 
closed,  but  Glory's  face,  with  its  curling  and  twitching  lip 
and  its  laughing  and  liquid  eyes,  was  printed  on  the  dark- 
ness. 

"Ave  Maria,"  he  murmured  ;  and  saying  this  again  and 
again,  he  fell  asleep. 

Next  morning  the  daylight  had  not  quite  dawned  when 
he  was  awakened  by  a  knock  at  his  door  and  a  low  voice 
saying,  "  Benedicamus  Domino  ! " 

It  was  the  Father  Superior,  who  made  it  his  rule  to 
rouse  the  household  himself,  on  the  principle  of  "  whoso- 
ever will  be  chief  among  you,  let  him  be  your  servant." 

"Deo  Gratias,"  he  answered,  and  the  voice  went  on 
through  the  corridor.  Then  the  bell  rang  for  Lauds  and 
Prime,  and  John  left  his  cell  to  begin  his  life  as  Brother 
Storm. 

II. 

Though  it  was  against  the  rule  of  the  Order  to  indulge 
in  particular  friendships,  yet  in  obedience  to  the  rule  of 
Nature  he  made  friends  among  the  brothers.  His  feeling 
for  tlie  Superior  became  stronger  than  love  and  approached 
to  adoration,  and  there  were  certain  of  the  Fatliers  to  whom 
his  heart  went  out  with  a  tender  sympathy.  The  Father 
Minister  was  a  man  of  a  hard,  closed  soul,  very  cantanker- 


THE  RELIGIOUS  LIB'E.  141 

ous  and  severe ;  but  the  rest  were  gentle  and  timid  men  for 
the  most  part,  with  a  wistful  outlook  on  the  world. 

It  was  due  in  part  to  the  iDroximity  of  his  cell  to  the 
quarters  assigned  to  the  lay  brothers  that  his  two  closest 
friendships  were  made  among  them.  One  was  with  a  great 
creature,  like  an  overgrown  boy,  who  kept  the  door  to  the 
monastery  by  day,  and  alternated  that  duty  with  another 
by  night.  He  was  called  Brother  Andrew — for  the  lay 
brothers  were  known  by  their  Christian  names — and  he  was 
one  of  those  characterless  beings  who  are  only  happy  when 
they  have  merged  their  individuality  in  another's  and  joined 
their  fate  to  his.  He  attached  himself  to  John  from  the 
first,  and  as  often  as  he  was  at  liberty  he  was  hanging  about 
him,  ready  to  fetch  and  carry  in  his  shambling  gait,  which 
was  like  the  roll  of  an  old  dog.  The  expression  of  his  beard- 
less face  was  that  of  a  boy,  and  he  had  no  conversation,  for 
he  always  agreed  with  everything  that  was  said  to  him. 

The  other  of  John's  friendships  was  with  the  lay  bi'other 
whom  he  had  known  outside — the  brother  of  Polly  Love — 
but  this  was  a  friendship  of  slower  growth,  impeded  by  a 
tragic  obstacle.  John  had  seen  him  fii'st  in  the  refectory  on 
the  night  of  his  arrival,  and  observed  in  his  face  the  marks 
of  suffering  and  exhaustion.  At  various  times  afterward  he 
had  seen  him  in  the  church  and  encountered  him  in  the 
corridors,  and  had  sometimes  bowed  to  him  and  smiled,  but 
the  brother  had  never  once  given  sign  of  recognition.  At 
length  he  had  begun  to  doubt  his  identity,  and  one  morning, 
going  upstairs  from  breakfast  side  by  side  with  the  Superior, 
he  said : 

"  Father,  is  the  lay  brother  with  the  melancholy  eyes  and 
the  pale  face  the  one  whom  I  knew  at  the  hospital  ? " 

"  Yes,"  said  the  Father ;  "  but  he  .is  under  the  rule  of 
silence." 

"  Ah  !     Does  he  know  what  has  become  of  his  sister  ? " 

"No." 

It  was  the  morning  hour  of  recreation,  and  the  Father 
drew  John  into  the  courtyard  and  talked  of  Brother  Pavil. 

He  was  much  tormented  by  thoughts  of  the  world  with- 
out, and  being  a  yovmg  man  of  a  weak  nervous  sj^stem  and 
a  consumptive  tendency,  such  struggles  with  the  evil  one 


142  THii   CHRISTIAN. 

were  hurtful  to  him.  Therefore,  though  it  was  the  rule  that 
a  la}^  brother  should  not  be  consecrated  until  after  long 
years  of  service,  it  had  been  decided  that  he  should  take  the 
vows  immediately,  in  order  that  Satan  might  yield  up  his 
hold  of  him  and  the  world  might  drag  at  him  no  more. 

"  Is  that  your  experience  ? "  said  John  ;  "  when  a  reli- 
gious has  taken  the  vows,  are  his  thoughts  of  the  world  all 
conquered  ? " 

"  He  is  like  the  sailor  making  ready  for  his  voyage.  As 
long  as  he  lies  in  harbour  his  thoughts  are  of  the  home  he 
has  left  behind  him  ;  but  when  he  has  once  crossed  the  bar 
and  is  out  on  the  ocean  he  thinks  only  of  the  haven  where 
he  would  be." 

"  But  are  there  no  backward  glances,  Father  ?  The  sailor 
may  write  to  the  friends  he  has  parted  from — surely  the 
religious  may  pray  for  them." 

"As  brothers  and  sisters  of  the  spirit,  yes,  always  and  at 
all  times ;  as  brothers  and  sisters  of  the  flesh,  no,  never,  save 
in  hours  of  especial  need.  He  is  the  sjjouse  of  Christ,  my 
son,  and  all  Christ's  children  are  his  kindred  equally." 

As  a  last  word  the  Father  begged  of  Joim  to  abstain 
from  reference  to  anything  that  had  happened  at  the  hos- 
pital, lest  Brother  Paul  might  hear  of  it  and  manifold  evils 
be  the  result. 

The  warning  seemed  needless.  From  that  day  forward 
John  tried  to  avoid  Brother  Paul.  In  church  and  in  the 
refectory  he  kept  his  eyes  away  from  him.  He  could  not 
see  that  worn  face,  with  its  hungry  look,  and  not  think  of  a 
captured  eagle  with  a  broken  wing.  It  was  with  a  shock 
that  he  discovered  that  their  cells  were  side  by  side.  If 
they  came  near  to  each  other  in  the  corridors  he  experienced 
a  kind  of  terror,  and  was  thankful  for  the  rule  of  silence 
whicli  forbade  them  to  speak.  Under  the  smouldering  ashes 
there  might  be  coals  of  fire  which  only  wanted  a  puff  to  fan 
them  into  flame. 

They  came  face  to  face  at  last.  It  was  on  the  lead  flat 
of  the  tower  above  their  cells.  John  had  grown  accustomed 
to  go  there  after  Compline,  that  he  might  look  on  London 
from  that  eminence  and  thank  God  that  he  had  escaped 
from  its  clutches.    The  stars  were  out,  and  the  city  lay  like 


THE   RELIGIOUS  LIFE.  I43 

a  great  monster  around  and  beneath.  Sometliing  demoni- 
acal had  entered  into  his  view  of  it.  Down  there  was  the 
river,  winding  like  a  serpent  through  its  sand,  and  here  and 
there  were  the  bridges,  like  the  scales  across  it,  and  farther 
west  was  the  head  of  the  great  creature,  just  beginning  to  be 
ablaze  with  lights. 

"She  is  there,"  he  thought,  and  then  he  was  startled  by  a 
sound.  Had  he  uttered  the  words  aloud  ?  But  it  was  some 
one  else  who  had  spoken.  Brother  Paul  was  standing  by 
the  parapet  with  his  eyes  in  the  same  direction.  When  he 
became  conscious  that  John  was  behind  him  he  stammered 
something-  in  his  confusion,  and  than  hurried  away  as  if  he 
had  been  detected  in  a  crime. 

"  God  pity  him ! "  thought  John.  "  If  he  only  knew 
what  has  happened  !  " 

Going  back  to  his  cell,  he  began  to  think  of  Glory.  By 
the  broken  links  of  memory  he  remembered  for  the  first 
time,  since  coming  into  the  monastery,  tbe  condition  of  in- 
security in  which  he  had  left  her.  How  uncertain  her  posi- 
tion at  the  hospital,  how  perilous  her  relations  with  her 
friend  ! 

Tlie  last  prayer  of  the  day  for  the  brothers  of  the  Geth- 
semane  was  tlie  prayer  before  the  crucifix  by  the  side  of  the 
bed  :  "  Thanks  be  to  God  for  giving  me  the  trials  of  this 
day  !  "  To  this  he  added  another  petition  :  "  And  bless  and 
protect  lier  wheresoever  she  may  be  !  " 

He  ceased  to  frequent  the  tower  after  that,  and  did  not 
go  up  to  it  again  until  the  morning  of  the  day  on  which  he 
was  to  make  his  vows.  By  this  time  his  soul  had  spent  itself 
so  prodigally  in  prayer  that  he  had  almost  begun  to  regard 
himself  as  one  already  in  another  world.  The  morning  was 
clear  and  frosty,  and  lie  could  see  that  something  unusual 
was  taking  place  on  the  earth  below.  Traffic  was  stopped, 
the  open  spaces  were  crowded,  and  processions  were  passing 
through  the  streets  with  bands  of  music  playing  and  ban- 
ners flj'ing.  Then  he  remembered  what  day  it  was — it  was 
Lord  Mayor's  Day,  the  9th  of  November — and  once  again 
he  thought  of  Glory.  She  would  be  there,  for  her  heart  was 
light  and  she  loved  the  world  and  all  its  scenes  of  gaiety  and 
splendour. 


144  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

It  was  the  day  of  his  final  pi'eparation,  and  he  was  under 
the  rule  of  silence,  so  he  returned  to  his  cell  and  shut  the 
door.  But  he  could  not  shut  out  the  sounds  of  the  streets. 
All  day  long  the  bands  were  playing  and  the  horses  pran- 
cing, and  there  was  the  tramp  of  many  feet.  And  even  in 
the  last  hour  before  the  ceremony,  when  he  was  on  his 
knees  in  front  of  the  crucifix  and  the  palms  of  his  hands 
were  pressed  against  his  face,  he  could  see  the  gay  spectacle 
and  the  surging  tlirongs — the  men,  the  women,  the  children 
in  every  window,  on  ever^*  parapet,  and  Glory  in  the  midst 
of  them  with  her  laughing  lips  and  her  sparkling  eyes. 

Night  brought  peace  with  it  at  length,  and  then  the  bell 
rang  and  he  went  down  to  service.  The  brothers  were  wait- 
ing for  him  in  the  hall,  and  they  formed  into  line  and  passed 
into  the  church  :  first.  Brother  Andrew  with  the  cross,  then 
Brother  Paul  with  the  incense,  and  the  other  lay  brothers 
with  the  candles,  then  the  religious  in  their  cassocks,  and 
the  Superior  in  his  cope,  and  John  Storm  last  of  all. 

The  altar  was  decorated  as  for  a  feast,  and  the  service  was 
strange  but  solemn.  John  had  drawn  up  in  writing  a  prom- 
ise of  stability  and  obedience,  and  this  he  placed  with  his 
own  hand  on  the  altar.  Down  to  that  naoment  he  had  worn 
his  costume  as  a  secular  i^riest,  but  now  he  was  to  be  robed 
in  the  habit  of  the  Order. 

Tlie  Father  stood  on  the  altar  steps  with  the  habit  lying 
at  his  feet.  He  took  it  up  and  blessed  it  and  then  put  it 
on  John,  saying  as  he  bound  it  with  the  cord,  "  Take  this 
cord  and  wear  it  in  memory  of  the  puritj^  of  heart  where- 
with you  must  ever  hereafter  seek  to  abide  in  the  love  and 
service  of  our  Lord  Jesus." 

At  that  moment  a  door  was  suddenly  and  loudly  slammed, 
to  signify  that  the  world  was  being  shut  out ;  the  choir  said 
the  Gloria  Patri,  and  then  sang  a  hymn  beginning : 

Farewell,  thoix  world  of  sorrow, 

Unrest,  and  schism  and  strife! 
I  leave  thee  on  the  threshold 

Of  the  celestial  life. 

It  was  the  occasion-  of  Brother  Paul's  life  vows  also,  and 
as  John  stood  back  from  the  altar  steps  the  lay  brother  was 


THE  RELIGIOUS  LIFE.  I45 

brought  up  to  them.  He  was  very  pale  and  nervous,  and  lie 
would  have  stumbled  but  for  the  help  of  the  Father  Minister 
and  Brother  Andrew,  who  Avalked  on  either  side  of  him. 

Then  the  same  ceremony  was  gone  through  again,  but 
with  yet  more  solemn  accessories.  The  burial  service  was 
read,  the  De  Profundis  was  sung,  the  bell  was  tolled,  the 
Ecce  quam  bonum  was  intoned,  and  finally  the  chant  was 
chanted : 

Dead  to  Him,  then  death  is  over, 
Dead  and  gone  are  death's  dark  fears. 

John  Storm  was  profoundlj^  stirred.  The  heavens  seemed 
to  open  and  all  the  earth  to  pass  away.  It  was  difficult  to 
•  believe  that  he  was  still  in  the  flesh. 

When  he  was  able  to  collect  himself  he  was  on  the  tower 
again,  but  in  his  cassock  now  and  gripping  the  cord  by 
which  it  was  tied.  The  frosty  air  of  the  morning  had  thick- 
ened to  a  fog,  the  fog-signals  were  sounding,  and  the  mighty 
monster  below  seemed  to  be  puffing  fire  from  a  thousand 
nostrils  and  bellowing  from  a  thousand  throats. 

Some  one  had  come  up  to  him.  It  was  Brother  Paul. 
He  was  talking  nervously  and  even  pretending  to  laugh  a 
little. 

"  I  am  so  happy  to  see  you  here.  And  I  am  glad  the 
silence  is  at  an  end  and  I  am  able  to  tell  you  so." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  John,  and  he  tried  to  pass  him. 

"  I  always  knew  you  would  come  to  us — that  is  to  say, 
after  the  night  I  heard  you  at  the  hospital — the  night  of  the 
Nurses'  Ball,  you  remember,  and  the  Father's  visit,  you  know. 
Still,  I  trust  there  was  nothing  wrong — nothing  at  the  hos- 
pital, I  mean " 

John  was  fumbling  for  the  door  to  the  dormer. 

"  Everybody  loved  you  too — the  patients  and  the  nurses 
and  everybody !  How  they  will  miss  you  thei'e !  I  trust 
you  left  everybody  well — and  happy  and — eh  ? " 

"  Good-night,"  said  John  from  the  head  of  the  stair. 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment,  and  then  the  brother 
said,  in  another  voice  : 

"  Yes,  I  understand  you.  I  know  quite  well  what  you 
mean.     It  is  a  fault  to  speak  of  the  outer*  world  except  on 


146  T^^  CHRISTIAN. 

especial  need.  We  have  taken  the  vows,  too,  and  are  pledged 
foi'  life— I  am,  at  all  events.  Still,  if  you  could  have  told 
me  anything But  I  am  much  to  blame.  I  must  con- 
fess my  fault  and  do  my  peuance." 

John  was  diving  down  the  stair  and  hurrying  into  his 
room. 

'•  God  help  him  !"  he  thought.  "  And  me  too  1  God  help 
both  of  us !  How  am  I  to  live  if  I  have  to  hide  this  secret  ? 
Yet  how  is  he  to  live  if  he  learns  it  ? " 

He  sat  on  the  bed  and  tried  to  compose  himself.  Yes, 
Brother  Paul  was  an  object  for  pity.  In  all  the  moral  uni- 
verse there  was  no  spectacle  more  pitiable  than  that  of  a 
man  who  had  left  the  world  while  his  heart  was  still  in  it. 
What  was  he  doing  here  ?  What  had  bi'ought  him  ?  What 
business  had  such  a  one  in  such  a  place  ?  And  then  his 
pitiful  helplessness  for  all  the  uses  of  life  and  duty  !  Could 
it  be  right,  could  it  be  necessary,  could  it  be  God's  wish  and 
will? 

Here  was  a  man  whose  sister  was  in  the  world.  She  was 
young  and  vain,  and  the  world  Avas  gay  and  seductive.  With- 
out a  hand  to  guide  and  guard  her,  Avhat  evils  might  not  be- 
fall ?  She  was  sunk  already  in  shame  and  degradation,  and 
he  had  put  it  Qut  of  his  power  to  save  her.  Whatever  had 
happened  in  the  past,  whatever  might  happen  in  the  future, 
he  was  lost  to  her  forever.  The  captured  eagle  with  the 
broken  wing  was  now  chained  to  the  wall  as  well.  But 
prayer  !  Prayer  was  the  bulwark  of  chastity,  and  God  was 
in  need  of  no  man's  efforts. 

John  fell  on  his  knees  before  the  crucifix.  With  the 
broken  logic  of  reverie  he  was  thinking  of  Glory,  and 
Brother  Paul,  and  Polly  and  Drake.  They  crossed  his 
brain  and  weighed  upon  it  and  went  out  and  returned. 
The  night  was  cold,  but  the  sweat  stood  on  his  brow  in 
beads.  In  the  deptlis  of  his  soul  something  was  speaking  to 
him,  and  he  was  ti-ying  not  to  listen.  He  was  like  a  blind 
man  who  had  stumbled  to  the  edge  of  a  precipice,  and  could 
hear  the  waves  breaking  on  the  rocks  beneath. 

When  he  said  his  last  prayer  that  night  he  omitted  the 
petition  for  Glory  (as  duty  seemed  to  require  of  him),  and 
then  found  that  all  life  and  soul  and  strength   had  gone 


THE  RELIGIOUS  LIFE.  I47 

out  of  it.  In  the  middle  of  the  night  he  awoke  with  a  sense 
of  fi'ight.  Was  it  only  a  dream  that  he  was  dead  and 
buried  ?  He  raised  his  head  in  the  darkness  and  stretched 
out  his  hand.  No,  it  was  true.  Little  by  little  he  pieced  to- 
gether the  incidents  of  the  previous  day.  Yes,  it  had  really 
happened. 

"After  all,  I  am  not  like  Paul — I  am  not  bound  for  life," 
he  told  himself,  and  then  he  lay  back  like  a  child  and  was 
comforted. 

He  was  ashamed,  but  he  could  not  help  it ;  he  was  feel- 
ing already  as  if  he  were  a  prisoner  in  a  dungeon  looking 
forward  to  his  release. 


III. 

"  5a  Little  Turnstile,  High  Holborn, 
"London,  W.  C,  November  9,  18 — . 

"  Oh  yiz,  oh  yiz,  oh  yiz !  This  is  to  announce  to  you 
with  due  pomp  and  circumstance  that  I,  Glory  Quayle, 
am  no  longer  at  the  hospital — for  the  present.  Did  I 
never  tell  you  ?  Have  you  never  noticed  it  in  the  regula- 
tions ?  Every  half-year  a  nurse  is  entitled  to  a  week's  holi- 
day, and  as  I  have  been  exactly  six  months  to-day  at  Mar- 
tha's Vineyard,  and  as  a  week  is  too  short  a  time  for  a  trip 
to  the  '  oilan,'  *  and  as  a  good  lady  whose  acquaintance  I 
have  made  here  had  given  me  a  j)ressing  invitation  to  visit 
her See  ? 

"  Being  the  first  day  since  I  came  up  to  London  that  I 
have  been  sole  mistress  of  my  will  and  pleasure,  I  have  been 
letting  myself  loose,  like  Caesar  does  the  moment  his  mad 
hoofies  touch  the  grass.  I  must  tell  you  all  about  it.  The 
day  began  beautifully.  After  a  spell  of  laughing  and  cry- 
ing weather,  and  all  the  world  sneezing  and  blowing  its 
nose,  there  came  a  frosty  morning  with  the  sun  shining  and 
the  air  as  bright  as  diamonds.  I  left  the  hospital  between 
eleven  and  twelve  o'clock,  and  crossing  the  park  by  Bird- 
cage Walk  I  noticed  that  flags  were  flying  on  Buckingham 

*  Island, 


148  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

Palace  and  church  bells  ringing  everywhere.  It  turned  out 
to  be  the  birthday  of  the  Prince  of  Wales,  and  the  Lord 
Mayor's  Day  as  well,  and  by  the  time  I  got  to  Storey's  Gate 
bands  of  music  were  playing  and  people  were  scampering 
toward  the  Houses  of  Parliament.  So  I  ran,  too,  and  from 
the  gardens  in  front  of  Palace  Yard  I  saw  the  Lord  Mayor's 
Show. 

"  Do  you  know  what  that  is,  good  people  ?  It  is  a  civic 
pageant.  Once  a  year  the  City  King  makes  a  royal  proces- 
sion through  the  streets  with  his  soldiers  and  servants  and 
keepers  and  pipers  and  retainers,  bewigged  and  bepowdered 
and  bestockinged  pretty  much  as  they  used  to  be  in  the  days 
before  the  flood.  There  have  been  seven  hundred  of  him  in 
succession,  and  his  particular  vanity  is  to  show  that  he  is 
wearing  the  same  clothes  still.  But  it  was  beautiful  alto- 
gether, and  I  could  have  cried  with  delight  to  see  those 
grave-looking  signiors  forgetting  themselves  for  once  and 
pretending  they  were  big  boys  over  again. 

"  Such  a  sight !  Flags  were  flying  everywhere  and  fes- 
toons were  stretched  across  the  streets  with  mottoes  and 
texts,  such  as  '  Unity  is  strength '  and  '  God  save  the 
Queen,'  and  other  amiable  if  not  original  ideas.  Traffic  was 
stopped  in  the  main  thoroughfares,  and  the  'buses  were  sent 
by  devious  courses,  much  to  the  astonishment  of  the  narrow 
streets.  Then  the  crowds,  the  dense  layers  of  potted  people 
with  white,  upturned  faces,  for  all  the  world  like  the  pic- 
tures of  the  round  stones  standing  upriglit  at  tlie  Giant's 
Causeway — it  was  wonderful ! 

"And  then  the  fun!  Until  the  procession  arrived  the 
policemen  were  really  obliging  in  that  way.  The  one  near- 
est me  was  as  fat  as  FalstalT,  and  a  slim  young  Cockney  in 
front  kept  addressing  intimate  remarks  to  liim  and  calling 
liim  Robert.  The  young  impudence  himself  was  just  as 
ridiculous,  for  he  wore  a  fringe  which  was  supported  by 
hair-oil  and  soap,  and  rolled  carefully  down  the  right  side 
of  his  forehead  so  that  he  could  always  keep  his  left  eye  on 
it.     And  he  did,  too. 

"  But  the  pageant  itself  !  My  gracious  !  how  we  laughed 
at  it !  There  were  Epping  Forest  verdoi-ors,  and  beef-caters 
from  the  Tower,  and  pipers  of  the  Scots  Guards,  and  ladies 


THE   RELIGIOUS  LIFE.  I49 

of  the  ballet  shivering  on  shaky  stools  and  pretending  to  be 
'  Freedom  '  and  '  Commerce,'  and  last  of  all  the  City  King 
himself,  smiling  and  bowing  to  all  his  subjects,  and  with 
his  liegemen  behind  him  in  yellow  coats  and  red  silk 
stockings.  Perhaps  the  most  popular  character  was  a  High- 
lander in  pink  tights,  where  his  legs  ought  to  have  been, 
walking  along  as  solemnly  as  if  he  thought  it  was  a  sort  of 
religious  ceremony  and  he  was  an  idol  out  for  an  airing. 

"  And  then  the  bands !  There  must  have  been  twenty  of 
them,  both  brass  and  fife,  and  they  all  played  the  Wash- 
ington Post,  but  no  two  had  the  luck  to  fall  on  the  same 
bar  at  the  same  moment.  It  was  a  medley  of  all  the  tunes 
in  music,  an  absolute  kaleidoscope  of  sounds,  and  meantime 
there  was  the  clash  of  bells  from  the  neighbouring  bel- 
fries in  honour  of  the  Prince's  birthday,  and  the  rattle  of 
musketry  from  the  Guards,  so  that  when  the  double  event 
was  over  I  felt  like  the  man  whose  wife  presented  him  with 
twins — I  wouldn't  have  lost  either  of  them  for  a  million  of 
money,  but  I  couldn't  have  found  it  in  my  heart  to  give  a 
bawbee  for  another  one. 

"  The  procession  took  half  an  hour  to  pass,  and  when  it 
was  gone,  remembering  the  ladies  in  lovely  dresses  who  had 
rolled  by  in  their  gorgeous  carriages,  looking  not  a  bit  clev- 
erer or  handsomer  than  other  people,  I  turned  away  with  a 
little  hard  lump  at  my  heart  and  a  limp  in  my  left  foot — tli^ 
young  Cockney  with-  the  fringe  had  backed  on  to  my  toe. 
I  suppose  they  are  feasting  with  the  lords  and  all  the  no- 
bility at  the  Guildhall  to-night,  and  no  doubt  the  crumbs 
that  fall  fi'om  the  rich  man's  table  will  go  in  pies  and  cakes 
to  the  alleys  and  courts  where  hunger  walks,  and  I  dare 
say  little  Lazarus  in  the  Mile  End  Road  is  dreaming  at 
this  very  moment  of  Dick  Whittington  and  the  Lord  Maj'or 
of  London. 

"  It  must  have  been  some  waking  dream  'of  that  sort 
which  took  possession  of  me  also,  for  what  do  you  suppose 
I  did  ?  Shall  I  tell  you  ?  Yes,  I  will.  I  said  to  myself  : 
'  Glory,  my  child,  suppose  you  were  nearly  as  poor  as  he 
was  in  this  great,  glorious,  splendid  London  ;  suppose — only 
suppose — you  had  no  home  and  no  friends,  and  had  left  the 
hospital,  or  perhaps  even  been  turned  away  from  it,  and 


150  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

hadn't  a  good  lady's  door  standing  open  to  receive  you, 
what  would  you  do  first,  my  dear  ? '  To  all  which  I  replied 
promptly,  '  You  would  first  get  yourself  lodgings,  my  child, 
and  then  you  would  just  go  to  work  to  show  this  great, 
glorious  London  what  a  woman  can  do  to  hring  it  to  her 
little  feet' 

"  I  know  grandfather  is  saying,  '  Gough  bless  me,  girl ! 
you  didn't  try  it,  though  ? '  Well,  yes,  I  did — just  for  fun, 
you  know,  and  out  of  the  spirit  of  mischief  that's  born  in 
every  daughter  of  Eve.  Do  you  remember  that  Manx  cat 
that  wouldn't  live  in  the  house,  notwithstanding  all  the 
bribes  and  corruption  of  Aunt  Rachel's  new  milk  and  soft- 
ened bread,  but  went  off  by  the  backyard  wall  to  join  the 
tribe  of  pariah  pussies  that  snatch  a  living  how  they 
may  ?  W^H,  I  felt  like  Rumpy  for  once,  having  three 
'  goolden  sovereigns '  in  my  pocket  and  a  mind  superior  to 
fate. 

"  It  was  glorious  fun  altogether,  and  the  world  is  so 
amusing  that  I  can't  imagine  why  aiiybody  should  go  out 
of  it  before  he  must.  I  hadn't  gone  a  dozen  yards  in  my 
new  character  as  Dick  Whittington^Z/e  before  a  coachman  as 
fat  as  an  elephant  was  shouting, '  Where  d'ye  think  yer  going 
ter  ? '  and  I  was  nearly  run  down  in  the  Broad  Sanctuary  by 
a  carriage  containing  two  brazen  women  in  sealskin  jackets, 
with  faces  so  thick  with  powder  and  paint  that  you  would 
have  thought  they  had  been  quarrelling  on  washing  day 
and  thrown  the  blue  bag  at  each  other's  eyes.  I  recognised 
one  of  them  as  a  former  nurse  who  had  left  the  hospital  in 
disgrace,  but  happily  she  didn't  see  me,  for  the  little  hard 
lump  at  ni}'^  heart  was  turning  as  bitter  as  gall  at  that  mo- 
ment, so  I  made  some  philosophical  observations  to  myself 
and  passed  on. 

"  Oh,  my  gracious,  these  London  landladies  !  They  must 
be  female  Sliylocks,  for  the  pound  of  flesh  is  the  badge  of 
all  their  tribe.  The  first  one  I  boarded  asked  two  guineas  for 
two  rooms,  and  lights  and  fires  extra.  '  By  the  month  ? ' 
says  I.  '  Yus,  by  the  month  if  ye  like,'  saj's  she.  'Two 
guineas  a  month  ?'  says  I.  Marry  come  up!  I  was  out  of 
that  house  in  a  twinkling. 

"  Then  I  looked  out  a  group  of  humbler  thoroughfares, 


THE  RELIGIOUS  LIFE.  151 

not  far  from  the  Houses  of  Parliament,  where  nearly  every 
house  had  a  card  fixed  up  on  a  little  green  blind.  At  last  I 
found  a  place  that  would  do — for  my  week,  only  my  week, 
you  know.  Ten  shillings  and  no  extras.  '  I'll  take  them,' 
said  I  with  a  lofty  air,  and  thereupon  the  landlady,  a  grim 
person,  with  the  suspicion  of  a  mustache,  began  to  cross- 
examine  me.  Was  I  married  ?  Oh,  dear,  no  !  Then  what 
was  my  business  ?  Fool  that  I  was,  I  said  I  had  none,  being 
full  of  my  Dick  Whittingtonism,  and  not  choosing  to  re- 
member the  hospital,  for  I  was  wearing  my  private  clothes, 
you  know.  But  hoot !  She  didn't  take  unmarried  young 
ladies  without  businesses,  and  I  was  out  in  the  street  once 
more. 

"  I  didn't  mind  it,  not  I  indeed,  and  it  was  only  for  fun 
after  all;  but  since  people  objected  to  girls  without  busi- 
nesses, I  made  up  my  mind  to  be  a  singer  if  anybody  asked 
me  the  question  again.  My  third  landlady  had  only  one 
room,  and  it  was  on  the  second  floor  back,  but  before  I  got 
the  length  of  mounting  to  this  eyry  I  went  through  my  ex- 
amination afresh.  '  In  the  profession,  miss  ? '  '  What  pro- 
fession?' 'The  styge.  of  course.'  'Well,  ye — yes,  some- 
thing of  that  sort.'  '  Don't  tyke  anybody  that's  on  the 
styge.' 

"  Oh,  dear  !  Oh,  dear  !  I  could  have  screamed,  it  was  so 
ridiculous ;  but  time  was  getting  on.  Big  Ben  was  striking 
four,  and  the  day  was  closing  in.  Then  I  saw  the  sign, 
'  Home  for  Girls.'  '  Wonder  if  it  is  a  charity  ? '  thinks  I ; 
but  no,  it  didn't  look  like  that,  so  in  I  went  as  bold  as  brass, 
and  inquired  for  the  manageress.  'Is  it  the  matron  you 
mean,  miss  ? '  '  Very  well,  the  matron  then,'  said  I,  and 
presently  she  came  up — no,  not  smiling,  for  she  wasn't  an 
amiable-looking  Christian,  but  I  thought  she  would  smother 
me  with  mysterious  questions.  '  Tired  of  the  life,  are  you, 
my  dear  ?  It  is  a  cruel  one,  isn't  it  ? '  I  stood  my  ground 
for  some  minutes,  and  then,  feeling  dreadfully  tliick  in  the 
throat,  and  cold  down  the  back,  I  asked  li^r  what  she  was 
talking  about,  whereupon  she  looked  bewildered  and  in- 
quired if  I  was  a  good  girl,  and  being  told  that  I  hoped  so, 
she  said  she  couldn't  take  me  in  there,  and  then  pointed  to  a 
card  on  the  wall  which,  simpleton  that  I  was,  I  hadn't  read 


152  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

before  :  '  A  home  and  rescue  is  offered  to  women  who  desire 
to  leave  a  life  of  misery  and  disgrace.' 

"  I  did  scream  that  time,  the  world  was  so  nonsensical. 
At  one  place,  being  '  on  the  styge  '  I  was  not  good  enough 
to  be  taken  in,  at  another  I  was  not  bad  enough,  and  what 
in  the  name  of  all  that  was  ridiculous  was  going  to  happen 
next  ?  But  it  was  quite  dark  by  this  time,  the  air  was  as 
black  as  a  northwest  gale,  and  I  was  '  aweary  for  all  my 
wings,'  so  forgetting  Dick  Whittington  fille,  and  only  re- 
membering the  good  female  Samaritan  who  had  asked  me 
to  stay  with  her,  I  made  a  dart  for  Victoria  Street  and 
jumped  into  the  first  'bus  that  came  along,  just  as  the  hotels 
and  the  clubs  and  the  great  buildings  were  putting  out  the 
Prince  of  Wales's  feathers  as  sign  and  symbol  of  the  usual 
rejoicings  within. 

"  It  was  an  '  Atlas '  omnibus,  and  it  took  me  to  Piccadilly 
Circus,  and  that  being  the  wrong  direction,  I  had  to  change. 
But  a  fog  had  come  down  in  the  meanwhile,  and  lo,  there  I 
was  in  the  middle  of  it ! 

"  O  Ananias,  x^zarias,  and  Misael !  Do  you  know  what 
a  London  fog  is  ?  It's  smoke,  it's  soot,  it's  sulphur.  It  is 
darker  than  night,  for  it  extinguishes  the  lights,  and  denser 
than  the  mist  on  the  Curragh,  and  filthier  than  the  fumes 
of  the  brick-kiln.  It  makes  you  think  the  whole  round 
earth  must  be  a  piggery  copper  and  that  London  has  lifted 
the  lid  off.  In  the  midst  of  this  inferno  the  cabs  crawl  and 
the  'buses  creep,  and  foul  fiends,  who  turn  out  to  be  men 
merely,  go  flitting  about  with  torches,  and  you  grope  and 
croak  and  cough,  and  the  most  innocent  faces  come  puffing 
and  snorting  down  on  you  like  the  beasts  in  the  Apocalypse. 

"  I  thouglit  it  good  fun  at  first,  but  presently  I  could 
only  keep  from  crying  by  having  a  good  laugli,  and  I  was 
doing  that,  and  asking  somebody  the  way  to  the  Holborn 
omnibus,  when  a  policeman  pushed  me  and  said  :  '  Come, 
move  on  ;  none  of  yer  lyterin'  abart  here  I ' 

"I  could  have  choked,  but  remembering  something  I 
had  seen  on  that  very  spot  on  the  niglit  of  my  first  day  out, 
I  dived  across  the  street  and  ran  in  spite  of  curses  and  col- 
lisions. But  the  '  somebody,'  whoever  he  was,  had  followed 
me,  and  he  put  me  into  the  right  'bus,  so  I  got  liere  at  last. 


THE  RELIGIOUS  LIFE.  I53 

It  took  two  mortal  hours  to  do  it,  and  after  that  spell  of 
purgatory  this  house  is  like  a  blessed  paradise,  peopled  with 
angels  of  mercy  and  grace,  as  paradise  ought  to  be. 

"  The  good  Samaritan  was  very  kind,  and  she  made  tea 
for  me  in  a  twinkling  and  slaughtered  the  fatted  calf  in  the 
shape  of  a  pot  of  raspberry  jam.  Her  name  is  Mrs.  Jupe, 
and  her  husband  is  something  in  a  club,  and  she  has  one 
child  of  eleven,  whose  bedfellow  I  am  to  be,  and  here  I  am 
now  with  Miss  Slyboots  in  our  little  bedroom  feeling  safe 
and  sound  and  monarch  of  all  I  survey. 

"  Good-night,  good  people  !  Half  an  hour  hence  I'll  be 
going  through  a  mad  march  of  the  incidents  of  the  day, 
turned  topsy-turvy  according  to  the  way  of  dreams.  But 
wae's  me  !  wae's  me  !  If  it  had  all  been  true — if  I  had  been 
really  homeless  and  friendless  and  penniless,  instead  of 
having  three  '  goolden  '  pounds  in  my  purse,  and  Provi- 
dence in  the  person  of  Mrs.  Jupe,  to  fall  back  upon  !  When 
I  grow  to  be  a  wonderful  woman  and  have  brought  the  eyes 
of  all  the  eai'th  upon  me,  I  am  going  to  be  good  to  poor 
girls  who  have  no  anchorage  in  London.  John  Storm  was 
right :  this  great,  glorious,  brilliant,  delightful  London  can 
be  very  cruel  to  them  sometimes.  It  calls  to  them,  beckons 
to  them,  smiles  on  them,  makes  them  think  there  must  be 
joy  in  the  blaze  of  so  much  light  and  luxury  and  love  by 
the  side  of  so  many  palaces,  and  then 

"  But  perhaps  the  mischief  lies  deeper  down ;  and 
though  I'm  not  going  to  cut  my  hair  and  wear  a  waistcoat 
and  stand  up  for  the  equal  rights  of  the  sexes,  I  feel  at  this 
moment  that  if  I  were  only  a  man  I  should  be  the  happiest 
woman  in  the  world,  God  bless  me  !  Not  that  I  am  afraid 
of  London,  not  I  indeed ;  and  to  show  you  how  I  long  to 
take  a  header  into  its  turbulent  tides,  I  hereby  warn  and 
apprize  and  notify  you  that  perhaps  I  may  use  my  week's 
holiday  to  find  a  more  congenial  employment  than  that  of 
deputy  White  Owl  at  the  hospital.  I  am  not  in  my  right 
place  yet.  Aunt  Anna,  notwithstanding,  so  look  out  for 
revelations !  '  To  be  or  not  to  be  ?  that  is  the  question.' 
Just  say  the  word  and  I'll  leave  it  to  Providence,  which  is 

always  a  convenient  legatee,  and  in  any  case but  wait, 

only  wait  and  see  what  a  week  will  bring  forth  1 
11 


154  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

"  Greet  the  island  for  me  to  the  inmost  core  of  its  being. 
The  dear  little  '  oilan  ! '  Now  that  I  am  so  for  away,  I  go 
over  it  in  my  mind's  eye  with  the  idiotic  affection  of  a 
mother  who  knows  every  inch  of  her  baby's  body  and  would 
like  to  gobble  it.  The  leaves  must  be  down  by  this  time, 
and  there  can  be  nothing  on  the  bare  boughs  but  the  empty 
nests  where  the  little  birdies  used  to  woo  and  sing.  My 
love  to  them  and  three  tremendous  kisses  for  yourselves  ! 

"  Glory. 

"  P.  S. — Oh,  haven't  I  given  you  the  '  newses '  about  John 
Storm  ?  There  are  so  many  things  to  think  about  in  a  place 
like  London,  you  see.  Yes,  he  has  gone  into  a  monastery — 
communication  cut  off — wires  broken  down  by  the  '  storm,' 
etc.  Soberly,  he  has  gone  for  good  seemingly,  and  to  talk 
of  it  lightly  is  like  picking  a  penny  out  of  a  blind  man's 
hat.  Of  course,  it  was  only  to  be  expected  that  a  man  with 
an  upper  lip  like  that  should  come  to  grief  with  all  those 
married  old  maids  and  elderly  women  of  the  opposite  sex. 
Canons  to  right  of  him,  canons  to  left  of  him,  canons  in 
front  of  him — but  rumour  says  it  was  John  himself  who 
volleyed  and  thundered.  He  wrote  me  a  letter  when  he  was 
on  the  point  of  going,  saying  how  London  had  shocked  and 
disappointed  him,  and  how  he  longed  to  escape  from  it  and 
from  himself  at  the  same  time,  that  he  might  dedicate  his 
life  to  God.  It  was  right  and  true,  no  doubt ;  but  wherefore 
could  not  I  pronounce  Amen  ?  He  also  mentioned  some- 
thing about  myself,  how  nuich  I  had  been  to  him  ;  for  he 
had  never  known  his  mother,  and  had  never  had  a  sister, 
and  could  never  Jiave  a  wife.  All  which  was  excellent,  but 
a  mere  woman  like  Glory  doesn't  want  to  read  that  sort  of 
thing  in  a  letter,  and  would  rather  have  five  minutes  of 
John  Storm  the  man  than  a  whole  eternity  of  John  Storm 
the  saint.  His  letter  made  me  think  of  Christian  on  his  way 
to  the  eternal  city ;  but  that  person  has  always  seemed  to 
me  a  doubtful  sort  of  hero  anyway,  taking  Mrs.  Christian 
into  account  and  the  various  little  Christians,  and  I  can't 
pity  him  a  pin  about  his  bundle,  for  he  might  just  as  well 
have  left  behind  him  wliat  he  couldn't  enjoy  of  God's 
providence  himself. 

"But  this  is  like  hitting  a  cripple  with  his  crutch,  John 


THE  RELIGIOUS  LIFE.  155 

being  gone  and  past  all  defending  himself,  and  when  I 
think  of  it  in  the  streets  I  have  to  run  to  keep  myself  from 
doing  something  silly,  and  then  people  think  I'm  chasing 
an  omnibus,  when  I'm  really  only  chasing  my  tears.  I 
can't  tell  you  much  about  the  Brotherhood.  It  looks  like  a 
cross  between  a  palace  and  a  penitentiary,  and  it  appears 
that  ritualism  has  gone  one  better  than  High-Churchman- 
ship,  and  is  trying  to  introduce  the  monastic  system,  which, 
to  an  ordinary  woman  of  the  world,  seems  well  enough  for 
the  man  in  the  moon,  though  the  man  in  the  moon  might 
have  a  different  way  of  looking  at  things.  They  say  the 
brothers  are  all  celibates  and  live  in  cells,  but  I  think  I've 
seen  a  look  in  John  Storm's  eyes  that  warns  me  that  he 
wasn't  intended  for  '  the  lek  o'  that '  exactly.  To  tell  you 
the  truth,  I  half  blame  myself  for  what  has  happened,  and 
I  am  ashamed  when  I  remember  how  jauntily  I  took  mat- 
ters all  the  time  our  poor  John  was  fighting  with  beasts  at 
Ephesus.  But  I  am  vexed  with  him  too ;  and  if  only  he 
had  waited  patiently  before  taking  such  a  serious  step  in 

order  to  hear  my  arguments But  no  matter.    A  jackdaw 

isn't  to  be  called  a  religious  bird  because  it  keeps  a-cawing 
on  the  steeple,  and  John  Storm  won't  make  himself  into  a 
monk  by  shutting  himself  up  in  a  cell.    Good -night." 


IV. 

The  house  to  which  Glory  had  fled  out  of  the  fog  was  a 
little  dingy  tobacconist's  shop  opening  on  a  narrow  alley 
that  runs  from  Holborn  into  Lincoln's-Inn  Fields.  It  was 
kept  by  the  baby  farmer  whom  she  had  met  at  the  house  of 
Polly  Love,  and  the  memory  of  the  address  thrust  u])on  her 
there  had  been  her  only  resource  on  that  day  of  crushing 
disappointment  and  that  night  of  peril.  Mrs.  Jupe's  hus- 
band, a  waiter  at  a  West  End  club,  was  a  simple  and  help- 
less creature,  very  fond  of  his  wife,  much  deceived  by  her, 
and  kept  in  ignorance  of  the  darker  side  of  her  business 
operations.  Their  daughter,  familiarly  called  "  Booboo,"  a 
silent  child  with  cunning  eyes  and  pasty  cheeks,  was  being 


156  THE   CHRISTIAN. 

brought  up  to  help  in  the  shop  and  to  dodge  the  inspector  of 
the  school  boai'd. 

On  coming  downstairs  next  morning  to  the  close  and 
dingy  parlour  at  the  back.  Glory  had  looked  about  her  as 
one  who  had  expected  something  she  did  not  see,  whereupon 
Mrs.  Jupe,  wiio  was  at  breakfast  with  her  husband,  threw  up 
her  little  twinkling  eyes  and  said  : 

"Now  I  know  what  she's  a-lookin'  for  ;  it's  the  byeby." 

"  Where  is  it  ?  "  said  Glory. 

"  Gorn,  my  dear." 

"  Surely  you  don't  m^n " 

"  No,  not  dead,  but  I  'ad  to  put  it  out,  pore  thing  ! " 

"  Ye  see,  miss,"  said  Mr.  Jupe  with  his  mouth  full,  "  my 
missus  couldn't  nurse  the  byeby  and  'tend  to  the  biziniss  as 
well,  so  as  reason  was " 

"  It  brikes  my  'eart  to  think  it ;  but  it  made  such  a  n'ise, 
pore  darling ! " 

"  Does  the  mother  know  ? "  said  Glory. 

"  That  wasn't  necessary,  my  dear.  It's  gorn  to  a  pusson 
I  can  trust  to  tyke  keer  of  it,  and  I'm  trooly  thenkful '' 

"  It  jest  amarnts  to  this,  miss :  the  biziness  is  too  much 
for  the  missus  as  things  is '' 

"  I  wouldn't  keer  if  my  'ealth  was  what  it  used  to  be,  in 
the  dyes  when  I  'ad  Booboo." 

"  But  it  ain't,  and  she's  often  said  as  how  she'd  like  a 
young  laidy  to  live  with  her  and  'elp  her  with  th6  shop." 

"  A  nice-lookin'  girl  might  'ave  a-many  chawnces  in  a 
place  syme  as  this,  my  dear.'' 

"Lawd,  yus^  and  when  I  seen  the  young  laidy  come  in 
at  the  door,  '  Strike  me  lucky  ! '  thinks  I,  '  the  very  one  ! '  " 

"  Syme  'ere,  my  dear.  I  reckkernized  ye  the  minute  I 
seen  ye  ;  and  if  ye  want  to  leave  tlie  hospital  and  myke  a 
stawt,  as  you  were  saying  last  night " 

Glory  stopped  them.  They  were  on  the  wrong  trace  en- 
tirely. She  had  merely  come  to  lodge  with  them,  and  if 
that  was  not  agreeable 

"  Well,  and  so  ye  shell,  my  dear ;  and  if  ye  don't  like  the 
shop  all  at  onct,  there's  Booboo,  she  wants  lessons " 

"  But  I  can  i):iy,"  said  Glory,  and  tlien  she  was  compelled 
to  say  something  of  her  plans.     She  wanted  to  become  a 


THE   RELIGIOUS  LIFE.  15  7 

singer,  perhaps  an  actress,  and  to  tell  them  the  truth  she 
might  not  be  staying  long,  for  when  she  got  engage- 
ments  

"  Jest  as  you  like,  my  dear  ;  myke  yerself  at  'ome.  On'y 
don't  be  in  a  'urry  about  engygements.  Good  ones  ain't 
tots  picked  up  by  the  childring  in  the  streets  these  dyes." 

Nevertheless  it  was  agreed  that  Glory  was  to  lodge  at  the 
tobacconist's,  and  Mr.  Jupe  was  to  bring  her  box  from  the 
hospital  on  coming  home  that  night  from  his  work.  She 
was  to  pay  ten  shillings  a  week,  all  told,  so  that  her  money 
would  last  four  or  live  weeks,  and  leave  something  to  spare. 
"  But  I  shall  be  earning  long  before  that,"  she  thought,  and 
her  resources  seemed  boundless.  She  started  on  her  enter- 
prise instantly,  knowing  no  more  of  how  to  begin  than  that 
it  would  first  be  necessary  to  find  the  office  of  an  agent.  Mr. 
Jupe  remembered  one  such  place. 

"  It's  in  a  street  off  of  Waterloo  Road,"  he  said,  "  and  the 
name  on  the  windows  is  Josephs." 

Glory  found  this  person  in  a  fur-lined  coat  and  an  opera 
hat,  sitting  in  a  room  which  was  papered  with  photographs, 
chiefly  of  the  nude  and  the  semi-nude,  intermingled  with 
sheafs  of  playbills  that  hung  from  the  walls  like  ballads 
from  the  board  of  the  balladmonger. 

"  Veil,  vot's  yer  line  ? "  he  asked. 

Glory  answered  nervously  and  indefinitely. 

"  Vot  can  you  do  then  ? " 

She  could  sing  and  recite  and  imitate  people. 

The  man  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  My  terms  are  two 
guineas  down  and  ten  per  cent  on  salary." 

Glory  rose  to  go.     "  That  is  impossible.     I  can  not " 

"  Vait  a  minute.     How  much  have  you  got  ? " 

"  Isn't  that  my  business,  sir  ?  " 

"  Touchy,  ain't  ye,  miss  ?  But  if  you  mean  bizness,  I'll 
tyke  a  guinea  and  give  you  the  first  chawnce  what  comes 
in." 

Reluctantly,  fearfully,  distrustfully,  Glory  paid  her 
guinea  and  left  her  address. 

"  Daddle  doo,"  said  the  agent. 

Then  she  found  herself  in  the  street. 

"  Two  weeks  less  for  lodgings,"  she  thought,  as  she  re- 


158  THE   CHRISTIAN. 

turned  to  the  tobacconist's.  But  Mrs.  Jupe  seemed  entirely 
satisfied. 

"  What  did  I  tell  ye,  my  dear  ?  Good  engygements  ain't 
chasing  nobody  abart  the  streets  these  dyes,  and  there's  that 
many  girls  now  as  can  do  a  song  and  a  dance  and  a  recita- 
shing " 

Three  days  passed,  four  days,  five  days,  six  days,  a  week, 
and  still  no  word  from  Mr.  Josephs.  Glory  called  on  him 
again.  He  counselled  patience.  It  was  the  dead  season  at 
the  theatres  and  music  halls,  but  if  she  only  waited 

She  waited  a  week  longer  and  then  called  again,  and 
again,  and  yet  again.  But  she  brought  nothing  back  except 
her  mimicry  of  the  man's  manner.  She  could  hit  him  off 
to  a  hair — his  raucous  voice,  his  guttural  utterance,  and  the 
shrug  of  his  shoulders  that  told  of  the  Ghetto. 

Mrs.  Jupe  shrieked  witli  laughter.  That  lady's  spirits 
were  going  up  as  Glory's  came  down.  At  the  end  of  the 
third  week  she  said,  "  I  can't  abear  to  tyke  yer  money  no 
longer,  my  dear,  you  not  doing  nothink." 

Then  she  hinted  at  a  new  arrangement.  She  had  to  be 
much  from  home.  It  was  necessary  ;  her  health  was  poor — 
an  obvious  fiction.  During  her  absence  she  had  to  leave 
Booboo  in  charge. 

"  It  ain't  good  for  the  child,  my  dear,  and  it  ain't  good 
for  the  shop  ;  but  if  anybody  syme  as  yerself  would  tyke  a 
turn  behind  the  counter " 

Having  less  than  ten  shillings  in  her  pocket,  Glory  was 
forced  to  submit. 

There  was  a  considerable  traffic  through  the  little  turn- 
stile. Lying  between  Bedford  Row  and  Lincoln's  Inn,  it 
was  the  usual  course  of  lawyers  and  lawyers'  clerks  passing 
to  and  fro  from  the  coui'ts.  They  were  not  long  in  seeing 
that  a  fre.^h  and  beautiful  face  was  behind  the  counter  of  the 
dingy  little  tobacco-shop.  Business  increased,  and  Mi-s.  Jupe 
became  radiant. 

"  What  did  I  tell  ye,  my  dear  ?  There's  more  real  gen- 
tlemen a-mooching  raluid  here  in  a  day  than  a  girl  would 
have  a  chawnce  of  meeting  in  a  awspital  in  a  twelvemouth.'' 

Glory's  very  soul  was  sickening.  The  attentions  of  the 
men,  their  easy  manners,  their  little  liberties,  their  bows, 


THE  RELIGIOUS  LIFE.  I59 

their  smiles,  their  compliments — it  was  gall  and  wormwood 
to  the  girl's  unbroken  spirit.  Nevertheless  she  was  con- 
scious of  a  certain  pleasure  in  the  bitterness.  The  bitterness 
was  her  own,  the  pleasure  some  one  else's,  so  to  speak,  who 
was  looking  on  and  laughing.  She  felt  an  unconquerable 
impulse  to  sharpen  her  wit  on  Mrs.  Jupe's  customers,  and 
even  to  imitate  them  to  their  faces.  They  liked  it,  so  she 
was  good  for  business  both  ways. 

But  she  remembered  John  Storm  and  felt  suffocated  Avith 
shame.  Her  thoughts  turned  to  him  constantly,  and  she 
called  at  the  hospital  to  ask  if  there  were  any  letters.  There 
were  two,  but  neither  of  them  was  from  Bishopsgate  Street. 
One  was  from  Aunt  Anna.  Glory  was  not  to  dream  of 
leaving  the  hosijital.  With  tithes  going  down  every  year, 
and  everything  else  going  up,  how  could  she  think  of  throw- 
ing away  a  salary  and  adding  to  their  anxieties  ?  The  other 
was  from  her  grandfather  : 

"  Glad  to  hear  you  have  had  a  holiday,  dear  Glory,  and 
trust  you  are  feeling  the  better  for  the  change.  Must  con- 
fess to  being  a  little  startled  by  the  account  of  jouv  adven- 
ture on  Lord  Mayor's  Day,  with  the  wild  scheme  for  cutting 
adrift  from  the  hospital  and  taking  London  by  storm.  But 
it  was  just  like  my  little  witch,  my  wandering  gipsy,  and  I 
knew  it  was  all  nonsense ;  so  when  Aunt  Anna  began  to 
scold  I  took  my  pipe  and  went  upstairs.  Sorry  to  hear  that 
John  Storm  has  gone  over  to  Popery,  for  that  is  what  it 
comes  to,  though  he  is  not  under  the  Romish  obedience.  I 
am  the  more  concerned  because  I  failed  to  make  his  peace 
with  his  father.  The  old  man  seems  to  blame  me  for  every- 
thing, and  has  even  taken  to  passing  me  on  the  road.  Give 
my  best  respects  to  Mrs.  Jupe,  when  you  see  her  again,  with 
my  thanks  for  taking  care  of  you.  And  now  that  you  are 
alone  in  that  great  and  wicked  Babylon,  take  good  care  of 
j^ourself,  my  dear  one.  To  know  that  my  runaway  is  well 
and  happy  and  prosperous  is  all  I  have  left  to  reconcile  me 
to  her  absence.  Yes,  the  harvest  is  over  and  threshed  and 
housed,  and  we  have  fires  in  the  parlour  nearly  every  day, 
which  makes  Anna  severe  sometimes,  coals  being  so  dear 
just  now,  and  the  turf  no  longer  allowed  to  us." 


160  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

It  was  ten  days  overdue.  That  night,  in  her  little  bed- 
room, with  its  low  ceiling  and  sloping  floor,  Glory  wrote 
her  answer : 

"  But  it  isn't  nonsense,  my  dear  grandfather,  and  I  really 
have  left  the  hospital.  I  don't  know  if  it  was  the  holiday 
and  the  liberty  or  what,  but  I  felt  like  that  young  hawk  at 
Glenfaba — do  you  remember  it  ? — the  one  that  was  partly 
snared  and  came  dragging  the  trap  on  to  the  lawn  by  a 
string  caught  round  its  leg.  I  had  to  cut  it  away,  I  had  to, 
I  had  to  !  But  you  mustn't  feel  one  single  moment's  uneasi- 
ness about  me.  An  able-bodied  woman  like  Glory  Quayle 
doesn't  starve  in  a  place  like  London.  Besides,  I  am  pro- 
vided for  already,  so  you  see  my  bow  abides  in  sti'eugth. 
The  first  morning  after  my  arrival  Mrs.  Jupe  told  me  that 
if  I  cared  to  take  to  myself  the  style  and  title  of  teacheress 
to  her  little  Slyboots  I  had  only  to  say  the  word  and  I  should 
be  as  welcome  as  the  flowers  in  May.  It  isn't  exactly  first 
fiddling,  you  know,  and  it  doesn't  bring  an  ambassador's 
salary,  but  it  may  serve  for  the  present,  and  give  me  time 
to  look  about.  You  mustn't  pay  too  much  attention  to  my 
lamentations  about  being  compelled  by  Nature  to  wear  a 
petticoat.  Things  being  so  arranged  in  this  world  I'll  make 
them  do.  But  it  does  make  one's  head  swim  and  one's 
wings  droop  to  see  how  hard  Nature  is  on  a  woman  com- 
pared to  a  man.  Unless  she  is  a  genius  or  a  jelly-fish  there 
seems  to  be  only  one  career  open  to  her,  and  that  is  a  lot- 
tery, with  marriage  for  the  prizes,  and  for  the  blanks — oh 
dear,  oh  dear !  Not  that  I  have  anything  to  complain  of, 
and  I  hate  to  be  so  sensitive.  Life  is  wonderfully  interest- 
ing, and  the  world  is  such  an  amusing  place  that  I've  no 
patience  with  people  who  run  away  from  it,  and  if  I  were  a 
man — but  wait,  only  wait,  good  people  ! '' 


V. 

John  Storm  liad  made  one  other  friend  at  Bishopsgate 
Street— the  dog  of  the  monastery.  It  was  a  half-bred  blood- 
hound, and  nobody  seemed  to  know  whence  he  came  and 


J 


THE   RELIGIOUS  LIFE.  161 

why  he  was  there.  He  was  a  huge,  ungainly,  and  most 
forbidding  creature,  and  partly  for  tliat  reason,  but  chiefly 
because  it  was  against  rule  to  fix  tlie  affections  on  earthly 
things,  the  brothers  rarely  caressed  him.  Unnoticed  and 
unheeded,  he  slept  in  the  house  by  day  and  prowled 
through  the  court  by  night,  and  had  hardly  ever  been 
known  to  go  out  into  the  streets.  He  was  the  strictest 
monk  in  the  monastery,  for  he  eyed  every  stranger  as  if  he 
had  been  Satan  himself,  and  howled  at  all  music  except  the 
singing  in  the  church. 

On  seeing  John  for  the  first  time,  he  broadened  his  big 
flews  and  stiffened  his  thick  stern,  according  to  his  wont 
Avith  all  intruders,  but  in  this  instance  the  intruder  was  not 
afraid.  John  patted  him  on  the  peaked  head  and  rubbed 
him  on  the  broad  nose,  then  oj^ened  his  mouth  and  exam- 
ined his  teeth,  and  finally  turned  him  on  his  back  and 
tickled  his  chest,  and  they  were  fast  friends  and  comrades 
forever  after. 

Some  weeks  after  the  dedication  they  were  in  the  court- 
yard together,  and  the  dog  was  pitching  and  plunging  and 
uttering  deep  bays  which  echoed  between  the  walls  like 
thunder  at  play.  It  was  the  hour  of  morning  recreation, 
between  Terce  and  Sex^t,  and  the  religious  were  lolling 
about  and  talking,  and  one  lay  brother  was  sweeping  up 
the  leaves  that  had  fallen  from  the  tree,  for  the  winter  had 
come  and  the  branches  were  bare.  The  lay  brother  was 
Brother  Paul,  and  he  made  sidelong  looks  at  John,  but  kept 
his  head  down  and  went  on  with  his  work  without  speak- 
ing. One  by  one  the  brothers  went  back  to  the  house,  and 
John  made  ready  to  follow  them,  but  Paul  put  himself  in 
his  way.  He  was  thinner  than  before,  and  his  eyes  wei-e 
red  and  his  respiration  difficult.  Nevertheless,  he  smiled  in 
a  childlike  way,  and  began  to  talk  of  the  dog.  What  life 
there  was  in  the  old  creature  still !  and  nobody  had  known 
there  was  so  much  play  in  it. 
'     "You  are  not  feeling  so  well,  are  you  ? "  said  John. 

"Not  quite  so  well,"  he  answered. 

"The  day  is  cold,  and  this  penance  is  too  much  for  you." 

"  No,  it's  not  that.  I  asked  for  it,  you  know,  and  I  like 
it.     It's  something  else.     To  tell   you  the  truth,  I'm  very 


162  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

foolish  in  some  ways.  When  I've  got  anything-  on  my 
mind  I'm  always  thinking-.  Day  and  night  it's  the  same 
with  me,  and  even  work " 

His  breathing  was  audible,  but  he  tried  to  laugh. 

"  Do  you  know  what  it  is  this  time  ?  It's  what  you 
said  on  the  tower  on  the  night  of  the  vows,  you  remember. 
What  you  didn't  say,  I  mean — and  that's  just  the  trouble. 
It  was  wrong  to  talk  of  the  world  without  great  necessity, 
but  if  you  had  been  able  to  answer  me  in  a  word,  if  you  had 
been  able  to  say  '  Yes '  when  I  asked  if  everybody  was  well 
you  would  have  done  it,  wouldn't  you  ? " 

"We'll  not  talk  of  that  now,"  said  John. 

"  No,  it  would  be  the  same  fault  as  before.     Still " 

"  How  keen  the  air  is  !  And  your  asthma  is  so  trouble- 
some !     You  must  really  let  me  speak  to  the  Father." 

"  Oh,  that's  nothing.  I'm  used  to  it.  But  if  you  know 
yourself  what  it  is  to  be  always  thinking  of  anybody " 

John  called  to  the  dog,  and  it  capered  about  him. 
"  Good-morning,  Brother  Paul."  And  he  went  into  the 
house.  The  lay  brother  leaned  on  his  besom  and  drew  a 
long  sigh  that  seemed  to  come  from  the  depths  of  his 
chest. 

John  had  hastened  away,  lest  his  voice  should  betray 
him. 

"Awful !  "  he  thought.  "It  must  be  awful  to  be  always 
thinking  of  somebody,  and  in  fear  of  what  has  happened  to 
her.  Poor  little  Polly !  She's  not  worthy  of  it,  but  what 
does  that  matter  ?  Blood  is  blood  and  love  is  love,  and  only 
God  is  stronger." 

A  few  days  afterward  the  air  darkened  and  softened, 
and  snow  began  to  fall.  Between  Vespers  and  Evensong 
John  went  up  to  the  tower  to  see  London  under  its  mantle 
of  white.  It  was  like  an  Eastern  city  now  uiider  an  East- 
ern moonlight,  and  he  was  listening  to  the  shouts  and 
laughter  of  people  snowballing  in  the  streets  when  he 
heard  a  laboured  step  on  the  stair  behind  him.  It  was 
Brother  Paul  coming  up  with  a  spade  to  shovel  away  the 
snow.  His  features  were  pinched  and  contracted,  and  his 
young  face  was  looking  old  and  worn. 

"  You  really  must  not  do  it,"  said  John.     "  To  work  like 


THE  RELIGIOUS  LIFE.  163 

this  is  not  penance,  but  suicide.  I'll  speak  to  the  Father, 
and  he'll " 

"  Don't ;  for  mercy's  sake,  don't !  Have  some  pity,  at  all 
events !  If  you  only  knew  what  a  good  thing  work  is  for 
me — how  it  drives  aw^ay  thoughts,  and  stifles " 

"  But  it's  so  useless,  Brother  Paul.  Look  !  The  snow  is 
still  falling,  and  there's  more  to  come  yet." 

"  All  the  same,  it's  good  for  me.  When  I'm  very  tired  I 
can  sleep  sometimes.  And  then  God  is  good  to  you  if  you 
don't  spare  yourself.  Some  day  perhaps  he'll  tell  me  some- 
thing."' 

"  He'll  tell  us  everything  in  his  own  good  time.  Brother 
Paul." 

"  It's  easy  to  counsel  patience.  If  I  were  like  you  I 
should  be  counting  the  days  until  my  time  was  over,  and 
that  would  help  me  to  bear  things.  But  when  you  are  dedi- 
cated for  life " 

He  stopped  at  his  work  and  looked  over  the  parapet,  and 
seemed  to  be  gazing  into  the  weary  days  to  come. 

"  Have  you  anybody  of  your  own  out  there  ? " 

"You  mean  any— — " 

"  Any  relative— any  sister  ?  " 

"No." 

"Then  you  don't  know  what  it  is ;  that's  why  you  won't 
give  me  an  answer." 

"Don't  ask  me.  Brother  Paul." 

"  Why  not  ? " 

"  It  might  only  make  you  the  more  uneasy  if  I  told  you 
what " 

The  lay  brother  let  his  spade  fall,  then  slowly,  very 
slowly,  picked  it  up  again  and  said  : 

"I  understand.  You  needn't  say  any  more.  I  shall 
never  ask  you  again." 

The  bell  rang  for  Evensong,  and  John  hurried  away. 
"  If  it  were  only  some  one  who  was  deserving  of  it ! "  he 
thought — "  some  one  who  was  worthy  that  a  man  should 
risk  his  soul  to  save  her ! " 

At  supper  and  in  church  he  saw  Brother  Paul  going 
about  like  a  man  in  a  waking  dream,  and  when  he  went  up 
to  bed  he  heard  him  moving  restlessly  in  the  adjoining 


164  THE   CHRISTIAN. 

cell.  The  fear  of  betraying  himself  was  becoming  unbear- 
able, and  he  leaped  up  and  stepped  out  into  the  corridor, 
intending  to  ask  the  Superior  to  give  him  another  room 
elsewhere.  But  he  stopped  and  came  back.  "It's  not 
brave,"  he  thought,  "it's  not  kind,  it's  not  human,"  and, 
saying  this  again  and  again,  as  one  whistles  when  going  by 
a  haunted  house,  he  covered  his  ears  and  fell  asleep. 

In  the  middle  of  the  night,  while  it  was  still  quite  dai'k, 
he  was  awakened  by  a  light  on  his  face  and  the  sense  of 
some  one  looking  down  on  him  in  his  sleep.  With  a  shud- 
der he  opened  his  eyes  and  saw  Brother  Paul,  candle  in 
hand,  standing  by  the  bed.  His  eyes  were  red  and  swollen, 
and  when  he  spoke  his  voice  was  full  of  tears. 

"  I  know  it's  a  fault  to  come  into  anybody  else's  cell," 
he  said,  "but  I  would  rather  do  my  penance  than  endure 
this  torture.  Something  has  happened — I  can  se«  tliat 
quite  well ;  but  I  don't  know  what  it  is,  and  the  suspense  is 
killing  me.  The  certainty  would  be  easier  to  bear ;  and  I 
swear  to  you  by  Him  who  died  for  us  that  if  you  tell  m.e  I 
shall  be  satisfied  !    Is  she  dead  ? " 

"  Not  that,"  said  John  by  a  sudden  impulse,  and  then 
there  was  an  awful  silence. 

"  Not  dead  !  "  said  Paul.  "  Then  would  to  God  that  she 
were  dead,  for  it  must  be  something  worse,  a  thousand  times 
worse  !  " 

John  felt  as  if  the  secret  had  been  stolen  from  him  in  his 
sleep  ;  but  it  was  gone,  and  he  could  say  nothing.  Brother 
Paul's  lips  trembled,  his  respiration  quickened,  and  he 
turned  away  and  smote  his  head  against  the  wall  and 
sobbed. 

"I  knew  it  all  the  time,"  he  said.  "Her  sister  went  the 
same  way,  and  I  could  see  tliat  slie  was  going  too,  and  that 
was  why  I  was  so  anxious.  Oh,  my  poor  mother  !  nij'  poor 
mother ! " 

For  two  days  after  that  John  saw  no  more  of  Brother 
Paul.     "He  is  doing  his  penance  somewhere,"  he  thought. 

Meanwhile  the  snow  was  still  falling,  and  wlien  the 
brothers  went  out  to  Lauds  at  6  A.  M.  they  i)as8ed  tln-ough 
a  cutting  of  snow  which  was  banked  up  afresh  every  morn- 
ing, though  the  day  had  not  then  dawned.     On  the  third 


THE  RELIGIOUS  LIFE.  165 

day  John  was  the  first  to  go  clown  to  the  hall,  and  there  he 
met  Brother  Paul,  with  his  spade  in  his  hands,  coming  out 
of  the  courtyard.  He  looked  like  a  man  who  was  melting 
before  a  fire  as  surely  as  a  piece  of  wax. 

"  I  am  sorry  now  that  I  told  you,"  said  John. 

Brother  Paul  hung  his  head. 

"  It  is  easy  to  see  that  you  are  suffering  more  than  ever ; 
and  it  is  all  my  fault.     I  will  go  to  the  Father  and  confess." 

Between  breakfast  and  Terce  John  carried  out  his  inten- 
tion. The  Superior  was  sitting  before  a  handful  of  fire,  in  a 
little  room  that  was  darkened  by  leather-bound  books  and 
by  the  flakes  of  snow  which  were  falling  across  the  window 
panes. 

"  Father,"  said  John.  "  I  am  a  cause  of  offence  to  another 
brothel",  and  it  is  I  who  should  be  doing  his  penance."  And 
then  he  told  how  he  had  broken  the  observance  which  for- 
bids any  one  to  talk  of  his  relations  with  the  world  without. 

The  Father  listened  with  great  solemnity. 

"  My  son,"  he  said,  "  your  temptation  is  a  testimony  to 
the  reality  of  the  religious  life.  Satan's  rage  against  the 
home  of  consecrated  souls  is  terrible,  and  he  would  fain 
break  in  upon  it  if  he  could  with  worldly  thoughts  and 
cares  and  passions.  But  we  m.ust  conquer  him  by  his  own 
weapons.  Your  penance,  my  son,  shall  be  of  the  same  kind 
witli  your  offence.  Go  to  the  door  and  take  the  place  of 
the  doorkeeper,  and  stay  there  day  and  night  until  the  end 
of  the  year.  Thus  shall  the  Evil  One  be  made  aware  that 
you  are  the  guardian  of  our  house,  to  be  tampered  with  no 
more." 

Brother  Andrew  was  troubled  when  John  took  his  place 
at  the  door  that  night,  but  John  himself  was  unconcerned. 
He  was  doorkeeper  to  the  household,  so  he  began  on  the 
duties  of  his  menial  position.  As  the  bi-others  passed  in  and 
out  on  their  mission-errands  he  opened  the  door  and  closed 
it.  If  any  one  knocked  he  answered,  "  Praise  be  to  God  !  " 
then  slid  back  the  little  grating  in  the  middle  panel  of  the 
door  and  looked  out  at  the  stranger.  The  hall  was  a  chill 
place,  with  a  stone  floor,  and  he  sat  on  a  form  that  stood 
against  one  of  its  walls.  His  bed  was  in  an  alcove  which 
had  formerly  been  the  cloak-room,  and  a  card  hung  over  it 


IQQ  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

with  the  inscription,  "  Children,  obey  your  parents  in  the 
Lord."  He  had  no  company  exce^jt  big  Brother  Andrew, 
who  stole  down  sometimes  to  cheer  him  with  his  speechless 
presence,  and  the  dog,  which  was  always  hanging  about 
him. 

VI. 

It  was  at  least  some  comfort  to  be  out  of  the  proximity 
of  Brother  Paul.  The  sounds  of  the  lay  brother  in  the 
neighbouring  cell  had  bi'ought  back  recollections  of  Glory, 
and  he  had  more  than  he  could  do  to  conquer  his  thoughts 
of  her.  Since  he  had  taken  his  vows  and  had  ceased  to 
mention  her  in  his  prayers  she  had  been  always  with  him, 
and  his  fears  for  her  fate  had  been  pricked  and  goaded  by 
the  constant  presence  of  Brother  Paul's  anxieties. 

On  the  other  hand,  it  was  some  loss  that  he  could  not  go 
to  the  church,  and  he  remembered  with  a  pang  how  happy 
he  had  been  after  a  night  of  terrors  when  he  had  gone  into 
God's  house  in  the  morning  and  cast  his  burden  on  him 
with  one  yearning  cry  of  ''  God  bless  all  women  and  young 
children  ! " 

It  was  now  the  Christmas  season,  and  his  heart  tingled 
and  thrilled  as  the  brothers  passed  through  the  door  at  mid- 
day and  talked  of  the  women  who  attended  the  Christmas 
services.  Were  they  really  so  calm  as  they  seemed  to  be, 
and  had  they  conquered  their  natural  affections  ? 

Sometimes  during  the  midday  service  he  would  slide 
back  the  grating  and  listen  for  the  women's  voices.  He 
heard  one  voice  in  all  of  them,  but  he  knew  it  was  onl}^  a 
dream.  Then  he  would  watch  the  snow  falling  from  the 
little  patch  of  dun-coloured  sky  crossed  by  bars,  and  tell 
himself  that  that  was  all  he  was  to  see  of  the  Avorld  hence- 
forth. 

The  sky  emptied  itself  at  last,  and  Brother  Paul  came 
again  to  shovel  away  the  snow.  He  was  weaker  than  ever, 
for  the  wax  was  melting  away.  .When  he  began  to  work, 
his  chest  was  op])resscd  and  his  face  was  feverish.  John 
snatched  the  spade  out  of  his  hand  and  fell  to  doing  his 
work  instead  of  him. 


THE   RELIGIOUS  LlPi].  16Y 

"I  can't  bear  to  see  it,  and  I  won't  ! "  he  said, 

"But  the  Father ?" 

"  I  don't  care — you  can  tell  him  if  you  like.  You  are 
killing  yourself  by  inches,  and  you  are  a  failing  man  any 
way." 

"  Am.  I  really  dying  ? "  said  Brother  Paul,  and  he  stag- 
gered away  like  one  who  had  heard  his  sentence. 

John  looked  after  him  and  thought :  "  Now  what  should 
I  do  if  I  were  in  that  man's  place  ?  If  the  case  were  Glory's, 
and  I  fixed  here  as  in  a  vice  ?  " 

He  was  ashamed  when  he  thought  of  Glory  like  that, 
and  he  dismissed  the  idea,  but  it  came  back  with  mechanical 
obstinacy  and  he  was  compelled  to  consider  it.  His  vows  ? 
Yes,  it  would  be  death  to  his  soul  to  break  them.  But  if 
she  were  lost  who  had  no  one  but  him  to  look  to — if  she 
went  down  to  wreck  and  I'uin,  then  the  fires  of  hell  would 
be  as  nothing  to  his  despair ! 

Brother  Paul  came  to  him  next  day  and  sat  on  the  form 
by  his  side  and  said  : 

"  If  I'm  really  dying,  what  am  I  to  do  ?  " 

"  What  would  you  like  to  do,  Brother  Paul  ? " 

"  I  should  like  to  go  out  and  find  her."  '    ' 

"  What  good  would  there  be  in  that  ? " 

"  I  could  say  something  that  would  stop  her  and  put  an 
end  to  everything." 

"  Are  you  sure  of  it  ? " 

A  wild  light  came  into  his  eyes  and  he  answered,  "  Quite 
sure." 

John  played  the  hypocrite  and  began  to  counsel  pa- 
tience. 

"  But  a  man  can't  live  without  hope  and  not  go  mad," 
said  Brother  Paul. 

"  We  must  trust  and  pray,"  said  John. 

"  But  God  never  answers  us.  If  it  were  your  own  case 
what  would  you  do  ?     If  some  one  outside  were  lost " 

"  I  should  go  to  the  Father  and  say,  '  Let  me  go  in  search 
of  her.' "     ' 

"  I'll  do  it,"  said  Brother  Paul. 

"  Why  not  ?  The  Father  is  kind  and  tender  and  he  loves 
his  children." 


168  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

"  Yes,  I  will  do  it,'"  said  Paul,  and  he  made  for  the 
Father's  room. 

He  got  to  the  door  of  the  cell  and  then  came  back  again. 
"  I  can't,"  he  said.  "  There's  something  you  don"t  know.  I 
can't  look  in  his  face  and  ask." 

"  Stay  here  and  I'll  ask  for  you,"  said  John. 

"  God  bless  you  !  "  said  Paul. 

John  made  three  hasty  strides  and  then  stopped. 

"  But  if  he  will  not " 

"  Then — God's  will  be  done  !  " 

It  was  morning,  and  the  Superior  was  reading  in  his 
room. 

"  Come  in,  my  son,"  he  said,  and  he  laid  his  book  on 
his  lap.  "  This  is  a  book  yon  must  read  some  day — the  In- 
ner Life  of  Pere  Lacordaire.  Most  fascinating  !  An  inner 
life  of  intolerable  horror  until  he  had  conquered  his  natural 
affections." 

"  Father,"  said  John,  "  one  of  our  lay  brothers  has  a  little 
sister  in  the  world  and  she  has  fallen  into  trouble.  She  has 
gone  from  the  place  where  he  left  her,  and  God  only  knoAvs 
where  she  is  now !     Let  him  go  out  and  find  her." 

"  Who  is  it,  my  son  ? " 

"  Brother  Paul — and  she  is  all  he  has,  and  he  can  not 
help  but  think  of  her." 

"This  is  a  temptation  of. the  evil  one,  my  son.  Brother 
Paul  has  newly  taken  the  vows  and  so  have  you.  The  vows 
are  a  challenge  to  the  powers  of  evil,  and  it  is  only  to  be  ex- 
pected that  he  who  takes  them  will  be  tested  to  the  utter- 
most." 

"But,  Father,  she  is  young  and  thoughtless.  Let  him 
go  out  and  find  her  and  save  her,  and  he  will  come  back 
and  praise  God  a  thousand  times  the  more." 

"  The  temptations  of  Satan  are  very  subtle ;  they  come  in 
the  guise  of  duty.  Satan  is  tempting  our  brother  through 
love,  and  you,  also,  through  pity.  Let  us  turn  our  backs  on 
him." 

"  Then  it  is  impossible  ?  " 

"  Quite  impossible." 

When  John  returned  to  the  door  Brother  Paul  was 
standing  by  the  alcove  gazing  with  wet  eyes  on  the  text 


THE   RELIGIOUS  LIFE.  109 

hanging-  above  tlie  bed.     He  saw  his  answer  in  Jolm's  face, 
and  they  sat  down  on  the  form  without  speaking. 

The  bell  rang  for  service  and  the  religious  began  to  pass 
through  the  hall.  As  the  Father  was  crossing  the  threshold 
Brother  Paul  flung  himself  down  at  his  feet  and  clutched 
his  cassock  and  made  a  frantic  appeal  for  pity. 

"  Father,  have  pity  upon  me  and  let  me  go  !  " 

The  Father's  eyes  became  moist  but  his  will  remained 
unshaken.  "  As  a  man  I  ought  to  have  pity,"  he  said,  "  and 
as  the  Father  of  all  of  you  I  should  be  kind  to  ray  children  • 
but  it  is  not  I  who  refuse  you,  it  is  God,  and  I  should  be 
guilty  of  a  sin  if  I  let  you  go." 

Then  Paul  burst  into  mad  laughter  and  the  religious 
gathered  round  and  looked  at  him  in  astonishment.  There 
was  foaru  on  his  lips  and  fire  in  his  eyes,  ahd  he  threw  up 
his  hands  and  fell  back  fainting. 

The  Father  made  the  sign  of  the  cross  on  his  breast  and 
his  lips  moved  in  silence  for  a  moment.  Then  he  said  to 
John,  who  had  raised  the  lay  brother  in  his  arms  : 

"Leave  him  there.  Damp  his  forehead  and  hold  his 
hands." 

And  turning  to  the  religious  he  added  :  "  I  ask  the  prayers 
of  the  community  for  our  poor  brother.  Satan  is  fighting 
for  his  soul.  Let  us  wrestle  in  prayer  that  we  may  expel 
the  spirit  that  possesses  him." 

At  the  next  moment  John  was  alone  with  the  uncon- 
scious man,  except  for  the  dog  which  was  licking  his  fore- 
head. And  looking  after  the  Superior,  he  told  himself  that 
such  unlimited  power  over  the  body  and  soul  of  another  the 
Almighty  could  have  meant  for  no  man.  The  love  of  God 
and  the  fear  of  the  devil  had  swallowed  up  the  love  of  man 
and  stifled  all  human  affections.  Such  religion  must  have 
hardened  the  best  man  ever  born.  As  for  the  poor  broken 
creature  lying  there  so  still,  his  vows  had  been  made  to 
heaven,  and  to  heaven  alone  his  obedience  was  due.  The  na- 
ture within  him  had  spoken  too  loudly,  but  there  were  laws 
of  Nature  which  it  was  a  sin  to  resist.  Then  why  should  he 
resist  them  ?  The  cry  of  blood  was  the  voice  of  God,  or  God 
had  no  voice  and  He  could  speak  to  no  man.  Then  why 
should  he  not  listen  ? 

12  ^0 


170  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

Brother  Paul  recovered  consciousness  and  raised  his 
head.  The  waves  of  memory  flowed  back  upon  liim  and 
his  eyes  flamed  and  his  lips  trembled. 

"  I  will  go  if  I  have  to  break  my  vows  ! "  he  said. 

"  No  need  for  that,"  said  John. 

"  Why  so  ?  " 

"  Because  I  will  let  you  out  at  night  and  let  you  in  again 
in  the  mox'ning." 

"You?" 

"Yes,  I.     Listen!" 

And  then  these  two  crushed  and  fettered  souls,  bound  by 
no  iron  bonds,  confined  by  no  bolts  and  bars,  but  only  under 
the  shadow  of  the  supernatural,  sat  together  like  prisoners 
in  a  dungeon  concocting  schemes  for  their  escape. 

"  The  Father  locks  the  outer  gate  himself,"  said  John. 
"  Where  does  he  keep  the  key  ? " 

"  In  his  own  room  on  a  nail  above  his  bed,"  said  Paul. 

"  Who  is  the  lay  brother  attending  to  him  now  ? " 

"  Brother  Andrew." 

"  Brother  Andrew  will  do  anything  for  me,"  said  John. 

"  But  the  dog  ?  "  said  Paul.  "  He  is  always  in  the  court 
at  night,  and  he  barks  at  the  sound  of  a  step." 

"  Not  my  step,"  said  John. 

"  I'll  do  it,"  said  Paul. 

"  I  will  send  you  to  some  one  who  can  find  your  sister. 
Youll  tell  her  you  come  from  me  and  she'll  take  you  with 
her." 

They  could  hear  the  singing  in  the  church,  and  they 
paused  to  listen. 

'*  When  I  come  back  in  the  morning  I'll  confess  every- 
thing and  do  my  penance,"  said  Paul. 

"  And  I  too,"  said  John. 

The  sun  had  come  out  with  a  sudden  gleain  and  the 
thawing  snow  was  dripping  from  the  trees  in  drops  like  dia- 
monds. The  singing  ceased,  the  service  ended,  and  the 
brothers  came  back  to  the  house.  When  the  Father  entered, 
Paul  was  clothed  and  in  his  right  mind  and  sitting  quietly 
on  the  form. 

"  Thank  God  for  this  answer  to  our  prayers  ! "  said  the 
Father.      "  But  you  must  pi'ay  without  ceasing  lest  Satan 


THE   RELIGIOUS  LIFE.  I7I 

should  conquer  you  again.  Until  the  end  of  the  year  say 
your  Eosary  in  the  church  every  night  alone  from  Com- 
pline to  midnight." 

Then  turning  to  John  he  said  with  a  smile :  "  And  you 
shall  he  like  the  anchoret  of  old  to  this  household,  my  son. 
We  monks  pray  by  day,  but  the  anchoret  prays  by  night. 
Unless  we  know  that  in  the  dark  hours  the  anchoret  guards 
the  house,  who  shall  rest  on  his  bed  in  peace  ? " 


VII. 

At  the  end  of  the  fourth  week,  after  Glory  had  paid  her 
fee  to  the  agent,  she  called  on  him  again.  It  was  Saturday 
morning,  and  the  vicinity  of  his  office  was  a  strange  and 
surprising  scene.  The  staircase  and  passages  to  the  house, 
as  well  as  the  pavement  of  the  streets  as  far  as  to  the  public- 
house  at  the  corner,  were  thi-onged  with  a  gaudy  but  shabby 
army  of  music-hall  artistes  of  both  sexes.  When  Glory 
attempted  to  pass  through  them  she  was  stopped  by  a  cry 
of,  "  Tyke  yer  turn  on  treasury  day,  my  dear,"  and  she  fell 
back  and  waited. 

One  by  one  they  passed  upstairs,  came  down  again  with 
cheerful  faces,  shouted  their  adieus  and  disappeared.  Mean- 
while they  amused  themselves  with  salutations,  all  more  or 
less  lively  and  familiar,  told  stories  and  exchanged  confi- 
dences, while  they  danced  a  step  or  stamped  about  to  keep 
away  the  cold.  "  You've  chucked  the  slap  *  on  with  a  mop 
this  morning,  my  dear,"  said  one  of  the  girls.  "  Have  I,  my 
love  ?  Well,  I  was  a  bit  thick  about  the  clear,  so  I  thought 
it  would  keep  me  warm."  "  It  ain't  no  use  facing  the  doner 
of  the  casa  with  that,"  said  a  man  who  jingled  a  few  coins  as 
he  came  downstairs,  and  away  went  two  to  the  public-house. 
Sometimes  a  showy  brougham  would  drive  up  to  the  door 
and  a  magnificent  person  in  a  fur-lined  coat,  with  diamond 
rings  on  both  hands,  would  sweep  through  the  lines  and  go 
upstairs.  When  he  came  down  again  his  carriage  door 
would  be  opened  by  half  a  dozen  "  pros  "  who  would  call 

*  Rouge. 


172  THE   CHRISTIAX. 

liim  "dear  old  cully  "  and  toll  him  tlioy  wore  "down  on  their 
luck  "  and  hadn't  "  done  a  turn  for  a  fortnig^ht."  He  would 
distribute  shillin^rs  and  half-crowns  amonff  them,  cry  "Ta- 
ta, boys,"  and  drive  awa\',  whereupon  his  pensioners  would 
stroke  their  cuffs  and  collars  of  threadbare  astrakhan,  tip 
winks  after  the  carriage,  and  say,  "  That's  better  than  crying 
cabbages  in  Covent  Garden,  ain't  it  ?  "  Then  they  would  all 
laugh  knowingly,  and  one  would  say,  "What's  it  to  be, 
cully  ?"  and  somebody  would  answer,  "  Come  along  to  Pov- 
erty Point  then,"'  and  a  batch  of  the  Avaiting  troop  would 
trip  off  to  the  corner. 

One  of  the  gorgeous  kind  was  coming  down  the  stairs 
when  his  eye  fell  on  Glory  as  she  stood  in  a  group  of  girls 
who  were  decked  out  in  rose  pink  and  corresponding  finery. 
He  paused,  turned  back,  reopened  the  office  door,  and  said  in 
an  audible  whisper,  "  Who's  the  pretty  young  ginger  you've 
got  here,  Josephs  ?  "  A  moment  afterward  the  agent  had 
come  out  and  called  her  upstairs. 

"It's  salary  day,  my  dear— vait  there,"  he  said,  and  he  put 
her  into  an  inner  room,  which  was  tawdrily  furnished  in 
faded  red  ])lush,  with  a  piano  and  coloured  prints  of  ballet 
girls  and  ])()xing  men,  and  was  full  of  the  odour  of  stale  to- 
bacco and  bad  \vhi.sky. 

She  waited  half  an  hour,  feeling  hot  and  ashamed  and 
troubled  with  perplexing  thoughts,  and  listening  to  the  jin- 
gle of  money  in  the  adjoinijig  room,  mingled  with  the  rijiple 
of  laughter  and  sometimes  the  exchange  of  angry  words. 
At  length  the  agent  came  back,  saying,  "Veil,  vat  can  I  do 
for  you  to-day,  my  dear  ? " 

He  had  been  drinking,  his  tone  was  familiar,  and  he  placed 
him.self  on  the  end  of  the  sofa  upon  which  Glory  was  seated. 

Glory  rose  immediaU'ly.  "  I  came  to  ask  if  you  have 
heard  uf  anything  for  me,"  she  said. 

"  Hit  down,  my  dear." 

"No,  thank  you." 

"Heard  anything?  Not  yet,  my  dear.  You  must 
vait " 

'•I  think  I've  waited  long  eiiou-h,  and  if  vour  jn-omises 
amount  to  anything  you'll  get  mo  an  appt'aran<>e  at  all 
events." 


THE  RELIGIOUS  LIFE.  I73 

'"So  I  vould.  my  dear.  I  vould  get  tou  an  extra  turn 
at  the  Vashington,  but  it's  Terj-  expensive,  and  you've  got 
no  money." 

'■  Then  why  did  you  take  what  I  had  if  you  can  do  noth- 
ing ?  Besides,  I  don't  want  anything  but  what  my  talents 
viill  earn.  Give  me  a  letter  to  a  manager — for  mercy's  sake, 
do  something  for  me  ! " 

There  was  the  shrug  of  the  Ghetto  as  the  man  rose  and 
said,  "  Tery  veil,  if  it's  like  that,  I'll  give  you  a  letter  and 
velcome." 

He  sat  at  the  table  and  wrote  a  short  note,  sealed  it  care- 
fully in  an  envelope  which  was  backed  with  advertisements, 
then  gave  it  to  Glory,  and  said,  '•Daddle  doo.  You'll  not 
require  to  come  again-"' 

Going  downstairs  she  looked  at  the  letter.  It  was  ad- 
dressed to  an  acting  manager  at  a  theatre  in  the  farthest 
west  of  London.  The  pa.ssages  of  the  house  and  the  pave- 
ments outside  were  now  empty ;  it  was  nearly  two  o'clock, 
and  snow  was  beginning  to  fall.  She  was  feeling  cold  and 
a  little  hungry,  but  making  up  her  mind  to  deliver  the  let- 
ter at  once,  she  hastened  to  the  Temple  station. 

There  was  a  matinee,  so  the  acting  manager  was  "in 
front"  He  took  the  letter  abruptly,  opened  it  with  an  air 
of  irritation,  glanced  at  it.  glanced  at  Glory,  looked  at  the 
letter  again,  and  then  said  in  a  strangely  gentle  voice,  "  Do 
you  know  what's  in  this,  my  girl  ? " 

'■  No,"  said  Glory. 

"  Of  course  you  don't — look,"  and  he  gave  her  the  letter 
to  read.     It  ran  : 

'■  Dear :  This  wretched  young  ginger  is  worrying 

me  for  a  shop.     She  isn't  worth  a .     Get  rid  of  her.  and 

oblige  Josephs." 

Glory  flxLshed  up  to  the  forehead  and  bit  her  lip  ;  then  a 
little  nervous  laugh  broke  from  her  throat,  and  two  great 
tears  came  rolling  from  her  eyes.  The  acting  manager  took 
the  letter  out  of  her  hands  and  tapped  her  kindly  on  the 
shoulder. 

'■  Never  mind,  my  child.  Perhaps  we'll  disappoint  him 
yet.    Tell  me  all  about  it" 


174  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

She  told  him  everything,  for  he  had  bowels  of  compas- 
sion. "We  can't  put  you  on  at  present,"  he  said,  "but 
our  saloon  contractor  wants  a  young  lady  to  give  out  pro- 
grammes, and  if  that  will  do  to  begin  with " 

It  was  a  crushing  disappointment,  but  she  was  helpless. 
The  employment  was  menial,  but  it  would  take  her  out  of 
the  tobacco  shop  and  put  her  into  the  atmosphere  of  the 
theatre,  and  bring  fifteen  shillings  a  week  as  well.  She 
might  begin  on  Monday  if  she  could  find  her  black  dress, 
white  apron,  cap,  and  cutfs.  The  dress  she  had  already,  but 
the  apron,  cap,  and  culfs  would  take  the  larger  part  of  the 
money  she  had  left. 

By  Sunday  night  she  had  swallowed  her  pride  "with  one 
great  gulp  and  was  writing  home  to  Aunt  Anna : 

"  I'm  as  busy  as  Trap's  wife  these  days  ;  indeed,  that  god- 
dess of  industry  is  nothing  to  me  now ;  but  Christmas  is 
coming,  and  I  shall  want  to  buy  a  present  for  grandfather 
(and  perhaps  for  the  aunties  as  well),  so  please  send  me  a  line 
in  seci'et  saying  what  he  is  wanting  most.  Snow !  snow ! 
snow !    The  snow  it  snoweth  every  day." 

On  the  Monday  evening  she  presented  herself  at  the 
theatre  and  was  handed  over  to  another  girl  to  be  instructed 
in  her  duties.  The  house  was  one  of  the  best  in  London,  and 
Glory  found  pleasure  in  seeing  the  audience  assemble.  For 
the  first  half  hour  the  gorgeous  gowns,  the  beautiful  faces, 
and  the  distinguished  manners  excited  her  and  made  her  for- 
get herself.  Then  little  by  little  there  came  the  pain  of  it  all, 
and  by  the  time  the  curtain  had  gone  up  her  gorge  was  ris- 
ing, and  she  crei)t  out  into  the  quiet  corridor  where  her  col- 
league was  seated  ali-eady  under  an  electric  lamp  reading  a 
penny  number. 

The  girl  was  a  little,  tender  black  and  white  tiling,  look- 
ing like  a  dahlia.  In  a  quarter  of  an  hour  Glory  knew  all 
aljout  her.  During  the  day  she  served  in  a  shop  in  the  White- 
chapel  Koad.  Iler  name  was  Agatha  Jones— they  called 
her  Aggie.  Her  people  lived  in  Bethnal  Green,  but  Charlie 
always  came  to  the  theatre  to  take  her  home.  Charlie  was 
her  young  man. 

In  the  intervals  between  the  acts  Glory  assisted  in  the 
cloak-room,  and  there  the  great  ladies  began  to  bo  very 


THE  RELIGIOUS  LIFE.  175 

amusing.  After  the  tinkle  of  the  electi'ic  bell  announcing 
the  second  act  she  returned  to  the  deserted  corridor,  and  be- 
fore her  audience  of  one  gave  ridiculous  imitations  in  dead 
silence  of  ladies  using  the  puff  and  twiddling  up  their  front 
hair. 

'■  My !  It's  you  as  oughter  be  on  the  styge,  my  dear," 
said  Aggie. 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?  "  said  Glory. 

"  I'm  going  on  myself  soon.  Charlie's  getting  me  on  the 
clubs." 

"The  clubs?" 

"  The  foreign  clubs  in  Soho.  More  nor  one  has  begun 
there." 

"  Eeally  ? " 

"The  foreigners  like  dancing  best.  If  you  can  do  the 
splits  and  shoulder  the  leg  it's  the  mykings  of  you  for  life." 

When  the  performance  was  over  they  found  Charlie 
waiting  on  the  square  in  front  of  the  house.  Glory  had 
seen  him  before,  and  she  recognised  him  immediately.  He 
was  the  young  Cockney  with  the  rolled  fringe  who  had  ban- 
tered the  policeman  by  Palace  Yard  on  Lord  Mayor's  Day. 
They  got  into  the  Underground  together,  and  when  Glory 
returned  to  the  subject  of  the  foreign  clubs  Charlie  grew 
animated  and  eloquent. 

"  They  give  ye  five  shillings  a  turn,  and  if  yer  good  for 
anythink  ye  may  do  six  turns  of  a  Sunday  night,  not  ter 
speak  of  special  nights,  and  friendly  leads  and  sech." 

When  Glory  got  out  at  the  Temple  Aggie's  head  was 
resting  on  Charlie's  shoulder,  and  her  little  gloved  fingers 
were  lightly  clasped  in  his  hand. 

On  the  second  night  Glory  had  conquered  a  good  deal  of 
her  pride.  The  grace  of  her  humour  was  saving  her.  It 
was  almost  as  if  somebody  else  was  doing  servant's  duty 
and  she  was  looking  on  and  laughing.  After  all  it  was  very 
funny  tliat  she  should  be  there,  and  what  delicious  thoughts 
it  would  bring  later  !  Even  Nell  Gwynne  sold  oranges  in 
the  pit  at  first,  and  then  some  day  when  she  had  risen  above 
all  this 

It  must  have  been  a  great  night  of  some  sort.  She  had 
noticed  red  baize  and  an  awning  outside,  and  the  front  of 


176  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

one  of  the  boxes  was  laden  with  flowers.  When  its  occu- 
pants entered,  the  orchestra  played  the  national  anthem  and 
the  audience  rose  to  their  feet.  It  was  the  Prince  with  the 
Princess  and  their  daughters.  The  audience  was  only  less 
distinguished,  and  something  far  off  and  elusive  moved  in 
her  memory  when  a  lady  handed  her  a  check  and  said  in  a 
sweet  voice  : 

"A  gentleman  will  come  for  this  seat." 

Glory's  station  was  in  the  stalls,  and  she  did  not  go  out 
when  the  lights  went  down  and  the  curtain  rose.  The  play 
was  a  modern  one— the  story  of  a  country  girl  who  returned 
home  after  a  life  of  bitterness  and  shame. 

It  moved  her  and  thrilled  her,  and  stirred  the  smoulder- 
ing fires  of  her  ambition.  She  was  sorry  for  the  actress 
who  played  the  part — the  poor  thing  did  not  understand — 
and  she  would  have  given  worlds  to  pour  her  own  voice 
through  the  girl's  mouth.  Then  she  was  conscious  that  she 
was  making  a  noise  with  her  hands,  and  looking  down  at 
them  she  saw  the  crumpled  programmes  and  her  white 
cuffs,  and  remembered  where  she  was,  and  what,  and  she 
murmured,  "  0  God,  do  not  punish  me  for  these  vain 
thoughts ! " 

All  at  once  a  light  shot  across  her  face  as  she  stood  in  the 
darkness.  The  door  of  the  corridor  had  been  opened,  and  a 
gentleman  was  coming  in.  He  stood  a  moment  beside  her 
with  his  eyes  on  the  stage  and  said  in  a  whisper : 

"  Did  a  lady  leave  a  seat  ? " 

It  wa.s  Drake !  She  felt  as  if  she  would  suffocate,  but 
answered  in  a  strained  voice  : 

"  Yes,  that  one.     Progranmie,  please." 

He  took  tlic  programme  without  looking  at  hex*,  put  his 
fingers  into  his  waistcoat  pocket,  and  slid  something  into 
her  hand.     It  was  sixpence. 

She  could  have  screamed.  Tlie  humiliation  was  too  ab- 
ject. Hurrying  out,  she  threw  down  her  papers,  put  on  her 
cloak  and  hat  and  fled. 

But  next  nK)rning  she  laughed  at  herself,  and  when  she 
took  out  Drake's  sixpence  she  laughed  again.  With  the 
poker  and  a  nail  she  drove  a  hole  through  the  coin  and  then 
hung  it  up  by  a  string  to  a  hook  over  the  mantelpiece,  and 


THE  RELIGIOUS  LIFE.  177 

laughed  (and  cried  a  little)  every  time  she  looked  at  it.  Life 
was  so  funny !  Why  did  people  bury  themselves  befoi-e 
they  were  dead  ?  She  wouldn't  do  it  for  Avorkls  !  But  she 
did  not  go  back  to  the  theatre  for  all  that,  and  neither  did 
she  return  to  the  counter. 

Christmas  was  near,  the  shops  became  bright  and  gay, 
and  she  remembered  what  beautiful  presents  she  had  meant 
to  send  home  out  of  the  money  she  had  hoped  to  earn.  Ou 
Cliristmas  Eve  the  streets  were  thronged  with  little  family 
groups  out  shopping,  and  there  were  many  amusing  sights. 
Then  she  laughed  a  good  deal ;  she  could  not  keep  from 
laughing. 

Christmas  Day  opened  with  a  rimy,  hazy  morning,  and 
the  business  thoroughfares  were  deserted.  They  had  suck- 
ing pig  for  dinner,  and  Mr.  Jupe,  who  was  at  home  for  the 
holiday,  behaved  like  a  great  boy.  It  was  afternoon  before 
the  postman  arrived  with  a  bag  as  big  as  a  creel,  full  of 
Christmas  cards  and  parcels.  There  was  a  letter  for  Glory. 
It  was  from  Aunt  Anna. 

"We  are  concerned  about  the  serious  step  you  have 
taken,  but  trust  it  is  for  the  best,  and  that  you  will  give 
Mrs.  Jupe  every  satisfaction.  Don't  waste  your  savings  on 
us.  Remember  there  are  post-office  savings  banks  every- 
where, and  that  there  is  no  friend  like  a  little  money." 

At  the  bottom  there  was  a  footnote  from  Aunt  Rachel : 
"  Do  you  ever  see  the  Queen  in  London,  and  the  dear  Prince 
and  Princess  ? " 

She  went  to  service  that  night  at  St.  Paul's  Cathedral. 
Entering  by  the  west  door,  a  verger  in  a  black  cloak  directed 
her  to  a  seat  in  the  nave.  The  great  place  was  dark  and 
chill  and  half  empty.  All  the  singing  seemed  to  come  from 
some  unseen  regions  far  away,  and  when  the.  preacher  got 
into  the  curious  pulpit  he  looked  like  a  Jack-in-the-box,  and 
it  seemed  to  be  a  drum  that  was  speaking. 

Coming  out  befoi'e  the  end,  .she  thought  she  would  walk 
to  the  Whitechapel  Road,  of  wliich  Aggie  had  told  her 
something.  She  did  so,  going  by  Bishoi^sgate  Street,  but 
turning  her  head  away  as  she  passed  the  church  of  the 
Brotherhood.  The  motley  crowd  of  Polish  Jews,  Germans, 
and  Chinamen,  in  the  most  interesting  street  in  Europe, 


178  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

amused  her  for  a  while,  and  then  she  walked  up  Houndsditch 
and  passed  through  Bishopsgate  Street  again. 

At  tlie  Bank  slie  took  an  omnibus  for  home.  The  only 
other  fare  was  a  bouncing  girl  in  a  big  hat  with  feathers. 

"  Going  to  the  market,  my  dear  ?  No  ?  I  hates  it  myself, 
too,  so  I  goes  to  the  'alls  instead.  Come  from  the  country, 
don't  ye  ?  Same  here.  Father's  a  farmer,  but  he's  got  six- 
teen besides  me,  so  I  won't  be  missed.  Live  ?  I  live  at 
Mother  Nan's  dress-house  now.  Nice  gloves,  ain't  they  ? 
My  hat  ?  Glad  you  like  the  style.  I  generally  get  a  new 
hat  once  a  week,  and  as  for  gloves,  if  anybody  likes  me " 

That  night  in  her  musty  bedroom  Glory  wrote  home 
while  little  Slyboots  slept :  "  '  The  best-laid  schemes  o'  mice 
and  men  gang  aft  aglee.'     Witness  me  ! 

"I  intended  to  send  you  some  Christmas  presents,  but 
the  snow  has  been  so  industrious  that  not  a  mouse  has  stirred 
if  he  could  help  it.  However,  I  send  three  big  kisses  in- 
stead, and  a  pair  of  mittens  for  grandfathei' — worked  with 
my  own  hands,  because  I  wouldn't  allow  any  good  Brownie 
to  do  it  for  me.  Tell  Aunt  Rachel  I  do  see  the  Prince  and 
Princess  sometimes.  I  saw  them  at  the  theatre  the  other 
night.  Yes,  the  theatre  !  You  must  not  be  shocked — we  are 
rather  gay  in  London — we  go  to  the  theatre  occasionally. 
It  is  so  interesting  to  meet  all  the  great  people !  You  see  I 
am  fairly  launched  in  fashionable  society,  but  I  love  every- 
body just  the  same  as  ever,  and  the  moment  the  candle  is 
out  I  sliall  be  thinking  of  Glenfaba  and  seeing  the  'Waits,' 
and  '  Oiel  Verree,'  and '  Hunting  the  Wren,'  and  grandfather 
smoking  his  pipe  in  the  study  by  the  light  of  the  fire,  and 
Sir  Thomas  Traddles,  the  tailless,  purring  and  blinking  at 
his  feet.    Merry  Christmas  to  you,  my  dears  !    By-bye." 


VIIL 

"'Where's  that  bright  young  Irish  laidy?'  the  gentle- 
men's allwiz  sayin',  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Jupe,  and  for  very 
shame's  sake,  having  no  money  to  pay  for  board  and  lodg- 
ings, Glory  returned  to  the  counter. 

A  little  beyond  Bedford  liow,  in  a  rookery  of  apartment 


THE  RELIGIOUS  LIFE.  1Y9 

houses  in  narrow  streets,  there  lives  a  colony  of  ballet  girls 
and  chorus  girls  who  are  employed  at  the  lighter  theatres  of 
the  Strand.  They  are  a  noisy,  merry,  reckless,  harmless 
race,  free  of  speech,  fond  of  laughter,  wearing  false  jew- 
ellery, false  hair,  and  false  complexions,  but  good  boots 
always,  which  they  do  their  utmost  not  to  conceal. 

Many  of  these  girls  pass  through  the  Turnstile  on  their 
way  to  their  work,  and  toward  seven  in  the  evening  the  to- 
bacconist's would  be  full  of  them.  Nearly  all  smoked,  as 
the  stained  forefinger  of  their  right  hands  showed,  and 
while  they  bought  their  cigarettes  they  chirruped  and 
chirped  until  the  little  shop  was  like  a  tree  full  of  linnets  in 
the  spring. 

Most  of  them  belonged  to  the  Frailty  Theatre,  and  their 
usual  talk  was  of  the  "  stars  "  engaged  there.  Chief  among 
these  were  the  "  Sisters  Bellman,"  a  trio  of  singers  in  bur- 
lesque, and  a  frequent  subject  of  innuendo  and  repartee  was 
one  Betty,  of  that  ilk,  whose  name  Glory  could  remember 
to  have  seen  blazing  in  gold  on  nearly  every  hoarding  and 
sign. 

"  Says  she  was  a  governess  in  the  country,  my  dear." 
"  Oh,  yus,  I  dare  say.  Came  out  of  a  slop  shop  in  the  Mile 
End  Road  though,  and  learned  'er  steps  with  the  organ  man 
in  the  court  a-back  of  the  jam  factory."  "  Well,  I  never ! 
She's  a  wide  un,  she  is  !  "  ''About  as  wide  as  Broad  Street, 
my  dear.  Use  ter  sell  flowers  in  Piccadilly  Circus  till  some- 
body spoke  to  'er,  and  now  she  rides  'er  brougham,  doncher 
know."  Then  the  laughter  would  be  general,  and  the  girls 
would  go  off  with  their  arms  about  each  other's  waists,  and 
singing,  in  the  street  substitute  for  the  stage  whisper,  "  And 
'er  golden  'air  was  'anging  dahn  'er  back  !  " 

This  yellow-haired  and  yellow-fingered  sisterhood  saw 
the  game  of  life  pretty  clearly,  and  it  did  not  take  them  long 
to  get  abreast  of  Glory.  "Like  this  life,  my  dear  ?  "  "Go 
on  !     Do  she  look  as  if  she  liked  it  ? " 

"  Perhaps  I  do,  perhaps  I  don't,"  said  Glory. 

"  Tell  that  to  the  marines,  my  dear.  I  use  ter  be  in  a 
shop  myself,  but  I  couldn't  a-bear  it.     Give  me  my  liberty, 

I  say ;  and  if  a  girl's  got  any  sort  o'  figure Unnerstand, 

my  dear  ? " 


180 


THE  CHRISTIAN. 


Late  that  night  one  of  the  girls  came  in  breathless  and 
cried  :  "  Hooraa  !  What  d'ye  think  ?  Betty  wants  a  dresser, 
and  I^'^e  got  the  shop  for  ye,  my  dear.  Guinea  a  week  and 
the  pickings;  and  you  go  to-morrow  night  on  trial.  By- 
bye!" 

Glory's  old  infirmity  came  back  upon  her,  and  she  felt 
hot  and  humiliated.  But  her  vanity  was  not  so  much 
wounded  by  the  work  that  she  was  offered  as  her  honour  was 
hurt  by  the  work  slie  was  doing.  Mrs.  Jupe's  absences  from 
home  were  now  more  frequent  than  ever.  If  the  business 
that  took  her  abroad  was  akin  to  that  which  had  taken  her 
to  Polly  Love 

To  put  an  end  to  her  uneasiness,  Glory  presented  herself 
at  the  stage  door. 

"  You  the  noo  dresser,  miss  ? "  said  the  doorkeeper. 
"  Collins  has  orders  to  look  after  you. — Collins ! " 

A  scraggy,  ugly,  untidy  woman  who  was  passing  through 
an  inner  door  looked  back  and  listened. 

"  Come  along  of  me  then,"  she  said,  and  Glory  followed 
her,  first  down  a  dark  passage,  then  tlu-ough  a  dusty  avenue 
between  stacks  of  scenery,  then  across  the  open  stage,  up  a 
flight  of  stairs,  and  into  a  room  of  moderate  size  which  had 
no  window  and  no  ventilation  and  contained  three  cheval 
glasses,  a  couch,  four  cane-bottom  chairs,  three  small  toilet 
tables  with  gas  jets'  suspended  over  them,  three  large  trunks, 
some  boxes  of  cigarettes,  and  a  number  of  empty  cham- 
pagne bottles.  Here  there  was  another  woman  as  scraggy 
and  untidj'  as  the  fii-st,  who  bobbed  her  head  at  Glory  and 
then  went  on  with  her  work,  which  was  that  of  taking  gor- 
geous dresses  out  of  one  of  the  trunks  and  laying  them  on 
the  end  of  the  couch. 

"  She  t(^ld  me  to  show  you  her  first  act,"  said  the  woman 
called  Collins,  and,  throwing  open  another  of  the  trunks, 
she  indicated  some  of  the  costumes  contained  in  it. 

It  was  a  new  world  to  Glory,  and  there  was  something 
tingling  and  electrical  in  the  atmos))here  about  her.  There 
were  the  shouts  and  curses  of  the  scene-shiftei-s  on  the  stage, 
thi'  laugliing  voices  of  the  chorus  girls  going  by  the  door, 
and  all  tlie  multitudinous  noises  of  the  theatre  before  the 
curtain  rises.    Presently  there  was  a  rustle  of  silk,  and  two 


THE   RELIGIOUS  LI^E.  181 

young  ladies  came  bouncing  into  the  room.  One  was  tall 
and  pink  and  white,  like  a  scarlet  runner,  the  other  was 
little  and  dainty.  They  stared  at  Glory,  and  she  was  com- 
pelled to  speak. 

"  Miss  Bellman,  I  presume  ?  " 

"Ye  mean  Betty,  down't  ye  ?  "  said  the  tall  lady,  and  at 
that  moment  Betty  herself  arrived.  She  was  a  plump  per- 
son with  a  kind  of  vulgar  comeliness,  and  Glory  had  a 
vague  sense  of  having  seen  her  before  somewhere. 

"  So  ye've  came,"  she  said,  and  she  took  possession  of 
Glory  straightway.     "  Help  me  off  of  my  sealskin." 

Glory  did  so.  The  others  wei-e  similarly  disrobed,  and 
in  a  few  moments  their  three  ladyships  were  busy  before 
the  toilet  tables  with  their  grease  and  rose-pink  and  black 
pencils. 

Glory  was  taking  down  the  hair  of  her  stout  lady- 
ship, and  her  stout  ladyship  was  looking  at  Glory  in  the 
glass. 

"  Not  a  bad  face,  girls,  eh  ?  " 

The  other  two  glanced  at  Glory  approvingly.  "Not 
bad,"  they  answered,  and  then  hummed  or  whistled  as  they 
went  on  with  their  making-up. 

"Oh,  thank  you!"  said  Glory,  with  a  low  curtsy,  and 
everybody  laughed.  It  was  really  very  amusing.  Sud- 
denly it  ceased  to  be  so. 

"  And  what's  it's  nyme,  my  dear  ? "  said  the  little  lady. 

A  sort  of  shame  at  using  in  this  company  the  name  that 
was  sacred  to  home,  to  the  old  parson,  and  to  John  Storm, 
came  creeping  over  Glory  like  a  goosing  of  the  flesh,  and 
by  the  insj)iration  of  a  sudden  memory  she  answered, 
"  Gloria." 

The  little  lady  paused  with  the  black  pencil  at  her  eye- 
brows, and  said : 

"  My  !     What  a  nyme  for  the  top  line  of  a  bill ! " 

"Ugh!  Mykes  nie  feel  like  Sundays,  though,"  said  the 
tall  lady  with  a  shudder. 

"  Irish,  my  dear  ?  " 

"Something  of  that  sort,"  said  Glory. 

"  Brought  up  a  laidy,  I'll  be  bound  ?  " 

"  My  father  was  a  clergyman,"  said  Glory,  "  but " 


1^2  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

A  sudden  peal  of  laughter  stopped  her,  whereupon  she 
threw  up  her  head,  and  her  eyes  flashed  ;  but  her  stout  lady- 
ship patted  her  hands  and  said  : 

"No  offence,  Glo,  but  jou  re'Uy  mustn't — they're  all 
clergymen's  daughters,  doncher  know  ? '"' 

A  sharp  knock  came  to  the  door,  followed  by  the  first  call 
of  the  C0.11-boy.  "  Half-hour,  ladies."  Then  there  was  much 
bustle  and  some  irritation  in  the  dressing-room  and  the 
tuning  up  of  the  orchestra  outside.  The  knock  came  again. 
"  Curtain  up,  please."  The  door  was  thrown  open,  the  three 
ladies  swept  out — the  tall  one  in  tights,  the  little  one  in  a 
sei'pentine  skirt,  the  i^lump  one  in  some  fancy  costume — and 
Glory  was  left  to  gather  up  the  fragments,  to  listen  to  the 
orchestra,  which  was  now  in  full  power,  to  think  of  it  all 
and  to  laugh. 

Tlie  ladies  returned  to  the  dressing-room  again  and  again 
in  the  course  of  the  performance,  and  when  not  occupied 
with  the  changing  of  their  dresses  they  amu.sed  themselves 
variously.  Sometimes  they  smoked  cigarettes,  sometimes 
sent  Collins  for  brandy  and  soda,  sometimes  talked  of  their 
friends  in  front :  "  Lord  Johnny's  'ere  again.  See  'ini  in 
the  prompt  box  ?  It's  'is  sixtieth  night  this  piece,  and  there's 
only  been  sixty-nine  of  the  run  " — and  sometimes  they  dis- 
cussed the  audience  generally:  "Don't  know  what's  a-mat- 
ter  with  'em  to-night;  ye  may  work  yer  eyes  out  and  ye 
can't  get  a  'and." 

The  curtain  came  down  at  length,  the  outdoor  costumes 
were  resumed,  the  call-boy  cried  "Carriages,  please,"  the 
ladies  answered  "  Right  ye  are,  Tommy,"  her  plump  lady- 
ship nodded  to  Glory,  "You'll  do  middling,  my  dear,  when 
ye  get  yer  'and  in  "  ;  and  then  nothing  was  left  but  the  dark 
stage,  the  blank  house,  and  the  "  Good-night,  miss,"  of  the 
porter  at  the  stage  door. 

So  these  were  favourites  of  the  footlights !  And  Glory 
Quaylc  was  dressing  and  undressing  them  and  preparing 
them  for  the  stage  !  Next  morning,  before  rising,  Glory 
tried  to  think  it  out.  Were  they  so  very  beautiful  ?  Glory 
stretched  up  in  bed  to  look  at  herself  in  the  glass,  and  lay 
down  agai II  with  a  smile.  Were  they  so  much  cleverer  than 
other  people  ?    It  was  foolishness  to  think  of  it,  for  they 


THE  RELIGIOUS  LIFE.  183 

% 
•were  as  empty  as  a  drum.  There  must  be  some  explanation 
d  a  girl  could  only  find  it  out. 

Tlie  second  night  at  the  theatre  passed  much  like  the  first, 
except  that  the  ladies  were  visited  between  the  acts  by  a 
grouj)  of  fellow-artistes  from  another  company,  and  then  the 
free-and-easy  manners  of  familiar  intercourse  gave  way  to  a 
style  that  was  most  circumspect  and  precise,  and,  after  the 
fashion  of  great  ladies,  they  talked  together  of  morning  calls 
and  leaving  cards  and  five-o'clock  tea. 

There  was  a  scene  in  the  performance  in  which  the  three 
girls  sang  together,  and  Glory  crept  out  to  the  head  of  the 
stairs  to  listen.  When  she  returned  to  the  dressing-room 
her  heart  was  bounding,  and  her  eyes,  as  she  saw  them  in 
the  glass,  seemed  to  be  leaping  out  of  her  head.  It  was 
ridiculous !  To  think  of  all  that  fame,  all  that  fuss  about 
voices  like  those,  about  singing  like  that,  while  she — if  she 
could  only  get  a  hearing  ! 

But  the  cloud  had  chased  the  sunshine  from  her  face  in  a 
moment,  and  she  was  murmuring  again,  "  O  God,  do  not 
punish  a  vain,  presumptuous  creature  !  " 

All  the  same  she  felt  hajjpy  and  joyous,  and  on  the  third 
night  she  was  down  at  the  theatre  earlier  than  the  other 
dressers,  and  was  singing  to  herself  as  she  laid  out  tlie  cos- 
tumes, for  her  heart  was  beginning  to  be  light.  Suddenly 
she  became  aware  of  some  one  standing  at  the  open  door. 
It  was  an  elderly  man,  with  a  bald  head  and  an  owlish  face. 
He  was  the  stage  manager ;  his  name  was  Sefton. 

"  Go  on,  my  girl,"  he  said.  "  If  you've  got  a  voice  like 
that,  why  don't  you  let  somebody  hear  it  ? " 

Her  plump  ladyship  arrived  late  that  night,  and  her 
companions  were  dressed  and  waiting  when  she  swept  into 
the  room  like  a  bat  with  outstretched  wings,  crying  :  "  Out 
o'  the  wy  !    Betty  Bellman's  coming  !     She's  lyte." 

There  were  numerous  little  carpings,  backbitings,  and 
hypocrisies  during  the  evening,  and  they  reached  a  climax 
when  Betty  said,  "Lord  Bobbie  is  coming  round  to-night,' 
my  dear."  "Not  if  I  know  it,  my  love,"  said  the  tall  lady. 
"We  are  goin'  to  supper  at  the  Nell  Gwynne  Club,  my 
dearest."  "Surprised  at  ye,  my  darling."  "  You  are  a  nice 
one  to  preach,  my  pet ! " 


184  THE  CHRISTIAN". 

After  that  encounter  two  of  their  ladyships,  who  were 
kissing  and  hugging  on  the  stage,  were  no  longer  on  speak- 
ing terms  in  the  dressing-room,  and  as  soon  as  might  be 
after  the  curtain  liad  fallen,  the  tall  lady  and  the  little  one 
swept  out  of  the  place  with  mysterious  asides  about  a 
"  friend  being  a  friend,"  and  "not  staying  there  to  see  noth- 
ing done  shabby." 

"  If  she  don't  like  she  needn't,  my  dear,"  said  the  boy- 
cotted one,  and  then  she  dismissed  Glory  for  the  night  with 
a  message  to  the  fi'iend  who  would  be  waiting  on  the  stage. 
The  atmosphere  of  the  dressing-room  had  become  oppi'es- 
sive  and  stifling  that  night,  and,  notwithstanding  the  exal- 
tation of  her  spirits  since  the  stage  manager  had  spoken  to 
her.  Glory  was  sick  and  ashamed.  The  fires  of  her  ambition 
were  struggling  to  bux-n  under  the  drenching  showers  that 
had  fallen  upon  her  modesty,  and  she  felt  confused  and 
compromised. 

As  she  stepped  down  the  stairs  the  curtain  was  drawn 
up,  the  auditorium  was  a  void,  the  stage  dark,  save  for  a 
single  gas  jet  that  burned  at  the  prompter's  wing,  and  a  gen- 
tleman in  evening  dress  was  Avalking  to  and  fro  by  the  ex- 
tinguished footlights.  She  was  about  to  step  up  to  the  man 
when  she  recognised  him,  and  turning  on  her  heel  she  hur- 
ried away.  It  was  Lord  Robert  Ure,  and  the  memory  that 
liad  troubled  her  at  the  first  sight  of  Betty  was  of  the  woman 
who  had  ridden  with  Polly  Love  on  the  day  of  the  Lord 
Mayor's  show. 

Feeling  hot  and  foolish  and  afraid,  she  was  scurrying 
through  the  dark  passages  when  some  one  called  to  her.  It 
was  the  stage  manager. 

"I  should  like  to  hear  your  voice  again,  my  dear.  Come 
down  at  eleven  in  the  morning,  sharp.  The  leader  of  the 
orchestra  will  be  here  to  play." 

Slie  made  some  confused  answer  of  assent,  and  then 
found  hersdf  in  tlie  back  seat,  panting  audibly  and  takhig 
iong  breaths  of  the  cold  night  air.  She  was  dizzy  and  was 
leelnig,  as  slie  had  never  felt  before,  that  she  wanted  some 
one  to  lean  upon.  If  anybody  had  said  to  her  at  that 
moment,  "  Come  out  of  the  atmo.sphere  of  that  hot-bed,  my 
cluld,  zt  IS  full  of  da.iger  and  tlie  gern.s  of  deatli,"  she  would 


THE  RELIGIOUS   LIFE.  185 

have  left  everything  behind  and  followed  him,  whatever 
the  cost  or  sacrifice.  But  she  had  no  one,  and  the  pain 
of  her  yearning  and  the  misery  of  her  shame  were  choking 
her. 

Before  going  home  she  walked  over  to  the  hospital ;  but 
no,  there  was  still  no  letter  from  John  Storm.  There  was 
one  from  Drake,  many  days  overdue  : 

"  Dear  Glory  :  Hearing  that  you  call  for  your  letters,  I 
write  to  ask  if  you  will  not  let  me  know  where  you  are  and 
how  the  world  is  using  you.  Since  the  day  we  parted  in  St. 
James's  Park  I  have  often  spoken  of  you  to  my  friend  Miss 
Macquarrie,  and  I  am  angry  with  myself  when  I  remember 
what  remarkable  talents  you  have,  and  that  they  are  only 
waiting  for  the  right  use  to  be  made  of  them. 

"  Yours  most  kindly, 

"F.  H.  N.  Drake." 

"Many  thanks,  good  Late-i'-th'-day,"  she  thought,  and 
she  was  crushing  the  latter  in  her  hand  when  she  saw  there 
was  a  postscript : 

"  P.  S.— This  being  the  Christmas  season,  I  have  given 
myself  the  pleasure  of  sending  a  parcel  of  Yuletide  goodies 
to  your  dear  old  grandfather  and  his  sweet  and  simple 
household ;  but  as  they  have  doubtless  long  forgotten  me, 
and  I  do  not  wish  to  embarrass  them  with  unnecessary  ob- 
ligations, I  will  ask  you  not  to  help  them  to  the  identifica- 
tion of  its  source." 

She  straightened  out  the  letter  and  folded  it,  put  it  in  her 
pocket  and  returned  home.  Another  letter  was  waiting  for 
her  there.     It  was  from  the  parson  : 

"So  you  sent  us  a  Christmas-box  after  all!  That  Avas 
just  like  my  runaway,  all  innocent  acting  and  make-believe. 
What  joy  we  had  of  it ! — Rachel  and  myself,  I  ^  mean,  for 
we  h?ji  to  carry  on  the  fiction  that  Aunt  Anna  knew  noth- 
ing 9.bo  it  it,  she  being  vexed  at  the  thought  of  our  spend- 
5  hrift  sp.  :nding  so  much  money.  Chaise  brought  it  into  the 
13 


IgQ  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

parlour  while  Anna  was  upstairs,  and  it  might  have  been 
the  ark  going  up  to  Jerusalem  it  entered  in  such  solemn 
stillness.  Oh,  dear!  oh,  dear!  The  bun-loaf,  and  the 
almonds,  and  the  cheese,  and  the  turkey,  and  the  pound  of 
tobacco,  and  the  mull  of  snuflf !  On  account  of  Anna  every- 
thing had  to  be  conducted  in  great  quietness,  but  it  was  a 
terrible  leaky  sort  of  silence,  I  fear,  and  there  were  hot  and 
hissing  whispers.  God  bless  you  for  your  thought  and  care 
of  us !  Coming  so  timely,  it  is  like  my  dear  one  herself,  a 
gift  that  cometli  from  tlie  Lord  ;  and  when  people  ask  me  if 
I  am  not  afraid  tliat  mj'  granddaughter  should  be  all  alone 
in  that  great  and  wicked  Babylon,  I  tell  them  :  '  No ;  you 
don't  know  my  Glory  ;  she  is  all  courage  and  nerve  and 
power,  a  perfect  bow  of  steel,  quivering  with  sympathy  and 
strength.' " 


IX. 

Christmas  had  come  and  gone  at  the  Brotherhood,  and 
yet  the  project  was  unfulfilled.  John  himself  had  delaj^ed 
its  fulfilment  from  one  trivial  cause  after  another.  The 
night  was  too  dark  or  not  dark  enough ;  the  moon  shone 
or  was  not  shining.  His  real  obstacle  was  his  superstitious 
fear.  The  scheme  was  very  easy  of  execution,  and  the 
Father  himself  "had  made  it  so.  This,  and  the  Father's  trust 
in  him,  had  almost  wrecked  the  enterprise.  Only  his  own 
secret  anxieties,  which  were  interpreted  to  his  consciousness 
by  the  siglit  of  Brother  Paul's  wasting  face,  sufficed  to  sus- 
tain his  puri)ose. 

"The  man's  dying.     It  can  not  be  unpleasing  to  God." 

He  said  this  to  himself  again  and  again,  as  one  presses 
the  pain  in  one's  side  to  make  sure  it  is  still  there.  Under 
the  sliadow  of  the  ci'isis  liis  character  was  going  to  ruin. 
He  grew  cunning  and  hypocritical,  and  could  do  nothing 
that  was  not  false  in  reality  or  appearance.  When  the  Fa- 
ther pass(^d  him  he  would  drop  his  head,  and  it  ^^ 'i  "^  x 
for  contrition,  and  he  was  commended  for  humility  . 

It  was  now  the  last  day  of  the  year,  and  thei  ir.v  e 
]a.st  of  his  duty  at  the  door. 


THE  KF.LIGIOUS  LIFE.  187 

"It  must  be  to-night,"  lie  whispered,  as  Paul  passed  him. 

Paul  nodded.  Since  the  plan  of  escape  had  been  pro- 
jected he  had  lost  all  will  of  his  ovvn  and  become  quite 
passive  and  inert. 

How  the  day  lingered  !  And  when  the  night  came  it 
dragged  along  with  feet  of  lead  !  It  seemed  as  if  the  hour  of 
evening  recreation  would  never  end.  Certain  of  the  brothers 
who  had  been  away  on  preaching  missions  throughout  the 
country  had  returned  for  the  Feast  of  the  Circumcision,  and 
the  house  was  bright  with  fresh  faces  and  cheerful  voices. 
John  thought  he  had  never  before  heard  so  much  laughter 
in  the  monastery. 

But  the  bell  rang  for  Compline,  and  the  brothers  passed 
into  church.  It  was  a  cold  night,  the  snow  was  trodden 
hard,  and  the  wind  was  rising.  The  service  ended,  and  the 
brothers  returned  to  the  house  with  clasped  hands  and  passed 
up  to  their  cells  in  silence,  leaving  Brother  Paul  at  his  pen- 
ance in  the  church. 

Finally  the  Father  put  up  his  hood  and  went  out  to  lock 
the  gate,  and  the  dog,  who  took  this  for  his  signal,  shambled 
up  and  followed  him.  When  he  returned  he  shuddered  and 
shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"A  bitter  night,  my  son,"  he  said.  "It's  like  courting 
death  to  go  out  in  it.  Heaven  help  all  homeless  wanderers 
on  a  night  lilce  this  !  " 

He  was  wiping  the  snow  from  his  slippers! 

"  So  this  is  the  last  day  of  your  penance,  Brother  Storm, 
and  to-morrow  morning  you  will  join  us  in  the  community 
room.  You  have  done  well ;  you  have  fought  a  good  fight 
and  resisted  the  assaults  of  Satan.  Good-night  to  you,  my 
son,  and  God  bless  you  ! '" 

He  took  a  few  steps  forward  and  then  stopped.  "  By  the 
way,  I  promised  you  the  Life  of  Pere  Lacordaire,  and  you 
might  come  to  my  room  now  and  fetch  it." 

The  Father's  room  was  on  the  ground  floor  to  the  left  of 
the  staircase,  and  it  was  entered  from  a  corridor  which  cut 
the  house  across  the  middle.  The  rooms  that  opened  out  of 
this  corridor  to  the  front  looked  on  the  courtyard,  and  those 
to  the  back  looked  across  the  City  in  the  direction  of  the 
Thames.    The  Father's  room  opened  to  the  back.    It  was  as 


188 


THE  CHRISTTaN. 


bare  of  ornament  as  any  of  tlie  cells,  but  it  had  a  small  fire, 
and  a  writing-table  on  which  a  lamp  was  burning. 

As  they  entered  the  room  together  the  Father  hung  the 
key  of  the  gate  on  one  of  many  hooks  above  the  bed.  It  was 
the  third  hook  from  the  end  nearest  the  window,  and  the 
key  was  an  old  one  with  very  few  wards.  John  watched  all 
this,  and  even  observed  that  there  were  books  on  the  floor, 
and  that  a  man  might  stumble  if  he  did  not  Avalk  warily. 
The  Father  picked  up  one  of  them. 

"  This  is  the  book,  my  son.  A  most  precious  document, 
the  very  mirror  of  a  living  human  soul.  What  touched  me 
most,  perhaps,  were  the  Father's  references  to  his  mother. 
A  monk  may  not  have  his  mother  to  himself,  and  if  the 
love  of  woman  is  much  to  him  he  is  miserable  indeed  until 
he  has  fixed  his  eyes  on  the  most  blessed  among  women. 
But  the  religious  life  does  not  destroy  natural  afl'ection.  It 
only  kills  in  order  to  bring  forth  new  life.  The  corn  of 
wheat  dies  that  it  may  live  again.  That  is  the  true  Chris- 
tian asceticism,  my  son,  and  so  it  is  with  our  vows.  Good- 
night ! " 

As  John  was  coming  out  of  tlie  Father's  room,  he  met 
Brother  Andrew  going  into  it,  with  clean  linen  over  one 
arm  and  a  ewer  of  water  in  the  other  hand.  He  threw  on 
his  bed  in  the  alcove  the  book  which  the  Father  had  given 
him,  and  sat  down  on  the  form  at  the  door  and  tried  to 
strengthen  himself  in  his  purpose. 

"  The  man  is  dying  for  the  sight  of  his  sister.  He  can 
save  lier  soul  if  he  can  only  see  her.  It  can  not  be  displeas- 
ing to  the  Almighty." 

When  he  lifted  his  head  the  house  was  silent,  except  for 
the  wind  that  whistled  outside.  Presently  there  was  a 
scarcely  perceptible  click,  as  of  a  door  closing,  and  Brother 
Andrew  came  from  the  direction  of  the  Superior's  room. 
John  called  to  him  and  he  stepped  up  on  tip-toe,  for  the 
monk  hates  noise  as  an  evil  spirit.  The  sprawling  features 
of  the  big  fellow  were  all  smiles. 

"  Has  the  Father  gone  to  bed  ? ''  said  John. 

"Ye.s." 

"  Just  gone  ? " 

"No  ;  lialf  an  hour  ago." 


THE  RELIGIOUS  LIFE.  189 

"Then  he  will  be  asleep  by"  Ihis  time." 

"  He  was  asleep  before  I  left  hixT." 

"  So  he  doesn't  lock  his  door  on  the  mside  ? " 

"  No,  never."' 

"  Does  the  Father  sleep  soundly  ?  " 

"  Sometimes  he  does,  and  sometimes  a  cat  would  waken 
him." 

"  Brother  Andrew " 

"Yes." 

"  Would  you  do  something  for  me  if  I  wanted  it  very 
much  ? " 

"  You  know  I  would." 

"  Even  if  you  had  to  run  some  risk  ? " 

"I'm  not  afraid  of  that." 

"And  if  I  got  you  into  trouble,  perhaps  ?" 

"But  you  wouldn't.  You  wouldn't  get  anybody  into 
trouble." 

John  could  go  no  further.  The  implicit  trust  in  the 
simple  face  was  too  much  for  him. 

"  What  is  it  ? "  said  Brother  Andrew. 

"  Oh,  nothing — nothing  at  all,"  said  John.  "  I  was  only 
trying  you,  but  you  are  too  good  to  be  tempted,  and  I  am 
ashamed.     You  must  go  to  bed  now." 

"  Can  I  put  out  the  lights  for  you  ? " 

"  No,  I'm  not  ready  yet.  Ugh !  what  a  cruel  wind  !  A 
cold  night  for  Brother  Paul  in  the  church." 

"  Tell  me.  Brother  Storm,  what  is  the  matter  with  Brother 
Paul  ?    He  makes  me  think  of  my  mother,  I  don't  know  why." 

John  made  no  answer,  and  the  lay  brother  began  to  go 
upstairs.     Two  steps  up  he  stopped  and  whispered : 

"  Won't  you  let  me  do  something  for  you,  then  ?  " 

"  Not  to-night,  Brother  Andrew." 

"Good-night,  Brother  Storm." 

"  Good-night,  my  lad." 

John  listened  to  his  footsteps  until  they  stopped  far  over- 
head, and  then  all  was  quiet.  Only  the  whistling  of  the 
wind  broke  the  stillness  of  the  peaceful  house.  He  slid  back 
the  grating  and  looked  out.  All  was  darkness  except  for 
the  tiny  gleam  of  coloured  light  that  came  from  the  church, 
where  Brother  Paul  sat  to  say  his  Rosary, 


190  THE  CHRISTM' 

This  fortified  his  courage,  .nd  he  got  up  to  put  out  the 
lamps  in  the  staircase  ana  cori'idors.  He  began  at  the  top, 
and  as  he  came  down  he  listened  on  every  landing  and 
looked  carefully  "lound.  There  was  no  sound  anywhere 
except  the  light  fall  of  his  own  deadened  footstep.  His 
superstitious  fears  came  back  upon  him,  and  his  restless  con- 
science created  terrors.  The  old  London  mansion,  with  its 
mystic  cells,  seemed  full  of  strange  shadows,  and  the  wind 
howled  around  it  like  a  fiend.  One  by  one  he  extinguished 
the  lamps.  The  last  of  them  hung  in  the  hall  under  the 
picture  of  Christ  in  his  crown  of  thorns.  As  he  put  it  out 
he  thought  the  eyes  looked  at  him,  and  he  shuddered. 

It  was  now  half-past  ten,  and  time  to  caiTy  out  his  proj- 
ect. The  back  of  his  neck  was  aching  and  his  breath  was 
coming  quick.  With  noiseless  steps  he  walked  to  the  door 
of  the  Father's  room  and  listened  again.  Hearing  nothing, 
he  opened  the  door  wide  and  stepped  into  the  room. 

The  fire  was  slumbering  out,  but  it  cast  a  faint  red  glow 
on  the  ceiling  and  on  the  bed.  A  soft  light  rested  on  the 
Father's  face,  and  he  was  sleeping  peacefully.  There  was 
no  sound  except  the  wind  in  the  chimney  and  a  wlxistle 
sounding  from  a  steamer  in  the  river. 

To  reach  the  key,  where  it  hung  above  the  bed,  it  was 
necessary  to  step  between  the  fire  and  the  sleeping  man. 
As  John  did  so  his  black  shadow  fell  on  the  Father's  face. 
He  stretched  out  his  hand  for  the  key  and  found  that  a 
bunch  of  other  keys  were  now  hanging  over  it.  When  he 
removed  them  they  jingled  slightly,  and  then  his  heart 
stood  still,  but  the  Father  did  not  stir,  and  he  took  the  key 
of  the  gate  off  the  hook,  put  the  other  keys  back  in  their 
place,  and  turned  to  go. 

The  dog  began  to  howl— somebody  was  playing  music  in 
the  street— and  the  open  door  made  the  wind  to  roar  in  the 
Hmnney.  The  Father  sighed,  and  John  stood  with  a  quiver- 
ing heart  and  looked  over  his  .shoulder.  But  it  was  only  a 
deep  human  .sigh  uttered  in  sleep. 

At  the  next  moment  John  had  returned  to  the  corridor 
and  closed  the  door  behind  him.  His  throat  was  parched 
his  eyelids  were  twitching,  and  his  temples  were  beatino^ 
like  drums.     He  went  gliding  along  like  a  thief,  and  as  he 


THE  RELIGIOUS  LIFE.  191 

passed  the  picture  of  Christ  in  the  darkness  the  wind  seemed 
to  be  crying  "  Judas  ! '' 

Back  in  the  hall  he  dropped  on  to  the  form,  for  his  knees 
could  support  him  no  longer.  Love  and  conscience,  human- 
ity and  religion  clamoured  loud  in  his  heart  and  tore  him  to 
pieces.  "  Traitor  ! ''  cried  one.  "  But  the  man's  dying ! "  cried 
another.  "  Judas  !  "  "  She  is  hovering  on  the  brink  of  hell 
and  he  may  save  her  soul  from  death  and  damnation ! '' 
When  the  struggle  was  over,  conscience  and  religion  were 
worsted,  and  he  was  more  cunning  than  before. 

Then  the  clock  chimed  the  three  quarters,  and  he  raised 
his  head.  The  streets,  usually  so  quiet  at  that  hour,  were 
becoming  noisy  with  traffic.  There  were  the  shuffling 
of  many  feet  on  the  hard  snow  and  the  sharjj  crack  of' 
voices. 

He  opened  the  great  door  of  the  house  with  as  little  noise 
as  possible  and  stepped  out  into  the  courtyard.  The  blood- 
hound started  from  its  quarters  and  began  to  growl,  but  he 
silenced  it  with  a  word,  and  the  creature  came  up  and  licked 
his  hand.  He  crossed  the  court  with  quick  and  noiseless 
footsteps,  lifted  the  latch  of  the  saci'isty  and  pushed  through 
to  the  church. 

There  was  a  low,  droning  sound  in  the  empty  place.  It 
ran  a  space  and  was  then  sucked  in  like  the  sound  of  the  sea 
at  the  harbour  steps.  Brother  Paul  was  sitting  in  the  chan- 
cel with  a  lamp  on  the  stall  by  his  side.  His  head  leaned 
forward,  his  eyes  were  closed,  and  the  light  on  his  thin  face 
made  it  look  pallid  and  lifeless.  John  called  to  him  in  a 
"whisper. 

"  Paul ! " 

He  rose  quickly  and  followed  John  into  the  courtyard, 
looking  wild  and  weak  and  lost. 

"  But  the  lamp — I've  forgotten  it,"  he  said.  "  Shall  I  go 
back  and  put  it  out  ? " 

"  How  simple  you  are  ! "  said  John.  "  Somebody  may  be 
lying  awake  in  the  house.  Do  you  want  him  to  see  that 
you've  left  your  penance  an  hour  too  soon  ? " 

"  True." 

"  Come  this  way — quietly." 

They  passed  on  tip-toe  into  the  passage  leading  to  the 


192 


THE  CHRISTIAN. 


street,  where  some  flickering  gleams  of  the  light  without 
fell  over  them. 

"  Where's  your  hat  ?  "  said  John. 

"  I  forgot  that  too — I  left  it  in  the  church." 

"  Take  mine,"  said  John,  "  and  put  up  your  hood  and 
button  your  cassock — it's  a  cruel  night." 

"  But  I'm  afraid,"  said  Paid. 

"  Afraid  of  what  ?  " 

"  Now  that  the  time  has  come  I'm  afraid  to  learn  the 
truth  about  her.  After  all  uncertainty  is  hope,  you  know, 
and  then " 

"  Tut !  Be  a  man  !  Don't  give  way  at  the  last  moment. 
Here,  tie  my  handkei'chief  about  your  neck  !  How  help- 
less you  are,  though !  I've  half  a  mind  to  go  myself 
instead." 

''  But  you  don't  know  what  I  want  to  say,  and  if  you  did 
you  couldn't  say  it." 

"  Then  listen  !     Are  you  listening  ? " 

"  Yes." 

"  Go  to  the  hospital  where  your  sister  used  to  be  a  nurse." 

"  Martlia's  Vineyard  ? " 

"  Ask  for  Nurse  Quayle — will  you  remember  ? " 

"  Nurse  Quayle." 

"  If  she  is  on  night  duty  she  will  see  you  at  once.  But  if 
she  is  on  day  duty  she  may  be  in  bed  and  asleep,  and  in  that 
case " 

"What?" 

"  Here,  take  this  letter.    Have  you  got  it  ? " 

"Yes." 

"Give  it  to  the  porter.  Tell  him  it  comes  from  the 
former  chaplain — you  remember.  Say  it  concerns  a  matter 
of  great  importance,  and  ask  him  to  send  it  up  to  the  dormi- 
tories immediately.     Then " 

•     '-Well?" 

"  Then  she  must  tell  you  Avhat  to  do  next." 

"But  if  she  is  out  ?" 

"  Slie  may  be — this  is  New  Year's  Eve." 

"Ah!" 

"Wait  in  the  porch  till  she  comes  in  again." 

John's  impetuous  will  was  carrying  everytliing  before 


THE  RELIGIOUS  LIFE.  193 

it,  and  the  helpless  creature  began  to  overwhelm  him  with 
grateful  blessings. 

"Pooh!  Well  not  talk  of  that.  .  .  ,  Have  you  any 
money  ? " 

"  No." 

"Neither  have  I.  I  brought  nothing  here  except  the 
little  in  my  purse,  and  I  gave  that  up  on  entering." 

"I  don't  want  any — I  can  walk." 

"  It  will  take  you  an  hoiu*  then." 

A  clock  was  striking  somewhere.  "  Hush  !  One,  two, 
three  .  .  .  eleven  o'clock.  It  will  be  midnight  when  you 
get  there.     Now  go  !  " 

The  key -was  grating  in  the  lock  of  the  gate.  "Remem- 
ber Lauds  at  six  in  the  morning." 

"I'll  be  back  at  five." 

"  And  I'll  open  the  gate  at  5.30.  Only  six  hours  to  do 
everything." 

"Good-night,  then." 

"  Wait ! " 

"  What  is  it  ? " 

Paul  was  in  the  street,  but  John  was  in  the  darkness  of 
the  passage. 

"  Very  likely  you'll  cross  London  in  a  cab  with  her." 

"  My  sister  ?  " 

"Your  sister  went  to  live  somewhere  in  St.  John's  Wood, 
I  remember." 

"  St.  John's  Wood  ?  " 

"  Tell  her  " — John  was  striving  to  keep  his  voice  firm — 
"tell  her  I  am  happy — and  cheerful — and  looking  strong 
and  well,  you  know." 

"  But  you're  not.  You're  too  good,  and  you'i*e  wearing 
yourself  away  in  my " 

"  Tell  her  I  am  often  thinking  of  her,  and  if  she  has  any- 
thing to  say — anything  to  send — any  word — any  message 
...  it  can't  be  displeasing  to  the  Almighty  .  .  .  But  no 
matter  !     Go,  go  !  " 

The  key  had  grated  in  the  lock  again,  the  lay  brother 
was  gone,  and  John  was  left  alone. 

"  God  pity  and  forgive  me ! "  he  muttered,  and  then  he 
turned  away. 


194  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

The  traffic  in  the  streets  was  iucreasiug  every  moment, 
and  as  he  stumbled  across  the  courtyard  a  drunken  man 
going  by  the  gate  stopped  and  cried  into  the  passage, 
"  Helloa,  there  !  I'm  a-watchiu'  of  ye  !  "  The  bloodhound 
leaped  up  and  barked,  but  John  hurried  into  tlie  house  and 
clashed  the  door. 

He  sat  on  the  form  and  tried  to  compose  himself.  He 
thought  of  Paul  as  he  had  seen  him  at  the  last  moment — the 
captured  eagle  with  the  broken  wing  scudding  into  the 
night,  the  night  of  London,  but  free,  free  ! 

In  his  mind's  eye  he  followed  him  through  the  streets — 
down  Bishopsgate  Street  into  Threadneedle  Street  and  along 
Cheapside  to  St.  Paul's  churchyard.  Crowds,  of  people 
would  be  there  to-night  waiting  for  the  striking  of  the  clock 
at  midnight  that  they  might  raise  a  shout  and  wish  each 
other  a  happj^  New  Year. 

That  made  him  think  of  Glory.  She  would  be  there  too, 
for  she  loved  a  rich  and  abounding  life.  He  could  see  her 
quite  plainly  in  the  midst  of  the  throng  with  her  sparkling 
eyes  and  bounding  step.  It  would  be  so  new  to  her,  so 
human  and  so  beautiful !     Glory  !     Always  Glory  ! 

He  thought  he  must  have  been  dreaming,  for  suddenly 
the  clocks  were  all  striking,  first  the  clock  in  the  hall,  then 
the  clocks  of  the  churches  round  about,  and  finally  the 
great  clock  of  the  cathedi'al.  Almost  at  the  same  moment 
there  was  a  distant  sound  like  the  rattle  of  musketry,  and 
then  the  church  bells  began  to  ring. 

The  noises  in  the  street  were  now  tumultuous.  People 
were  shouting  and  laughing.  Some  of  them  were  singing. 
At  one  moment  it  was  a  Salvation  chorus,  at  the  next  a 
music-hall  ditty.  First  "  At  the  Cross,  at  the  Cross,"  then 
"  Mr.  'Einy  'Awkins,"  and  then  an  unfamiliar  ditty.  With 
measured  steps  over  the  hardened  snow  of  the  pavement 
there  came  tramping  along  a  line  of  boys  and  girls,  crying : 

D'ye  ken  John  Peel  with  his  coat  so  gay  ? 
D'ye  ken  John  Peel  at  the  break  of  day  f 
D'ye  ken  John  P-e-e-1 

Their  sin-ill  trebles  broke  like  a  rocket  on  the  topmost  note, 
and  there  was  loud  laughter. 


THE  RELIGIOUS  LIFE.  I95 

Glory  again  !    Always,  always  Glory  ! 

Then  the  scales  fell  from  his  eyes  and  he  saw  himself  as 
he  was,  a  self -deluded  man  and  a  cheat.  The  impulses  that 
had  prompted  him  to  this  night's  work  had  really  'centred 
in  Glory.  It  had  been  Glory  first  and  Glory  last,  and  his 
pity  for  Brother  Paul  and  his  fear  for  the  fate  of  Polly  had 
been  only  a  falsehood  and  pretence. 

The  night  wind  was  still  howling  about  the  house.  Its 
noise  mingled  with  the  peal  of  the  chui'ch  bells,  and  to- 
gether they  seemed  to  utter  the  voices  of  mocking  fiends  : 
Judas  !  Traitor  !  Fool !    Fool !  Traitor  !  Judas  ! 

He  covered  his  ears  with  his  hands  and  his  head  fell 
into  his  breast. 


X. 

"The  Little  Turnstile, 
"  New  Year's  Eve. 

"  HoORAA  !  hooraa  ! 

"  Feeling  like  bottled  yeast  this  evening  and  liable  to  go 
oflp,  I  thank  my  stars  I  have  three  old  babies  at  home  to 
whom  I  am  bound  to  tell  everything.  So  lizzen,  lizzen  for 
all !  Know  ye  tli^n,  all  men  (and  women)  by  these  presents 
that  there  is  a  gentleman  in  London  wlio  predicts  wonder- 
ful things  for  Glory.  His  name  is  Sefton,  and  I  came  to 
know  him  through  three  ladies — I  call  them  the  Three 
Graces — whose  acquaintance  I  have  made  by  coming  to  live 
here.  He  is  only  an  old  mushroom  with  a  bald,  white  head ; 
and  if  I  believed  everything  their  ladyships  say  I  should 
conclude  that  he  is  one  of  those  who  never  sin  except  twice 
a  year,  and  that  is  all  the  time  before  Christmas  and  all  the 
time  after  it.  But  their  Gi-aces  belong  to  that  saintly  sister- 
hood who  would  take  away  the  devil's  character  if  they 
needed  it  (they  don't),  and  though  the  mushroom's  honour 
were  as  scarce  as  the  middle  cut  in  salmon,  yet  in  common 
loyalty  Glory  would  have  to  believe  in  it. 

"  It  is  all  about  my  voice.  Hearing  it  by  accident  when 
I  was  humming  about  the  house  like  a  blue-bottle,  he  asked 
me  to  let  him  hear  it  again  in  a  place  where  he  could  judge 
of  it  to  more  advantage.     That  turned  out  to  be  a  theatre — ■ 


i96  THE  CHRISTIAN". 

yes,  indeed,  a  theatre — but  it  was  the  middle  of  tlie  morning', 
and  nobody  was  there  except  ourselves  and  a  couple  of 
cleaners,  so  Aunt  Anna  needn't  be  afraid.  Yes,  the  chief  of 
the  orchestra  was  present,  and  he  sat  before  a  piano  on  the 
edge  of  the  maelstrom,  in  what  we  should  call  the  High 
Bailiff's  pews — but  they  call  them  the  stalls — while  the 
mushroom  himself  went  back  to  the  cavernous  depths  of 
the  body,  which  in  a  theatre  they  have  properly  christened 
the  pit,  and  this  morning  it  looked  like  the  bottomless 
one. 

" Lor'-a-massey !  Ever  see  the  inside  of  a  theatre  in  the 
daytime  ?  Of  course  you've  2iot,  my  dears.  It  is  what  the 
world  itself  was  the  day  before  the  first  day — without  form 
and  void,  and  darkness  is  on  the  face  of  the  deep.  Not  a 
ray  of  daylight  anywhere,  except  the  adulterated  kind  that 
comes  mooching  round  corridors  and  prowling  in  at  half- 
open  doors,  and  floating  through  the  sepulchral  gloom  like 
the  sleepy  eyes  of  the  monsters  that  terrified  me  in  the  caves 
at  Grob-ny-Deigan  when  I  used  to  play  pirate,  you  remember. 

"  The  gentlemen  had  left  me  alone  on  the  stage  with  five 
or  six  footlights— which  they  ought  to  call  face-lights— 
flashing  in  my  eyes,  and  when  the  pianist  began  to  vamp 
and  I  to  sing  it  was  like  pitching  my  voice  into  a  tunnel, 
and  I  became  so  dreadfully  nervous  that  I  was  forced  to 
laugh.  That  seemed  to  vex  my  unseen  audience,  who 
thought  me  '  rot ' ;  so  I  said,  '  Let  there  be  more  light  then,' 
and  there  was  more  light,  'and  let  the  piano  cease  from 
troubling,'  and  it  was  so.  Then  I  just  stifPened  my  back  and 
gave  them  one  of  mother's  French  songs,  and  after  the  first 
verse  I  called  out  to  the  manager  at  the  back,  "  Can  you  hear 
me  ? '  and  lie  called  back,  '  Go  on  ;  it's  splendid  ! '  So  I  did 
'  Mylecharaine  '  in  the  Manx,  and  I  suppose  I  acted  both  of 
my  songs;  but  I  was  only  begiiniing  to  be  aware  that  my 
voice  in  that  great  place  was  a  little  less  like  a  barrel-organ 
than  usual  when  suddenly  there  came  a  terrific  clatter,  such 
as  comes  with  the  ninth  wave  on  the  shingle,  and  my  two 
dear  men  in  the  dark  were  clapping  the  skin  of  their  hands 
ofl"! 

"Oh,  my  dears!  my  dears!  If  you  only  knew  how  for 
weeks  and  weeks  I  had  been  moaning  and  lamenting  that 


THE   RELIGIOUS  LIFE.  197 

it  was  because  I  wasn't  clever  that  people  took  no  notice  of 
me,  you  would  forgive  a  vain  creature  when  slie  said  to  her- 
self, '  My  daughter,  you  are  really  somebody,  after  all — you, 
you,  you  ! '  It  was  a  beautiful  moment,  though,  and  when 
the  old  mushroom  came  back  to  the  stage  saying  :  '  What  a 
voice  !  What  expression  !  What  nature  ! '  I  felt  like  fall- 
ing on  his  bald  head  and  kissing  it,  not  being  able  to  speak 
for  lumps  in  the  thi'oat  and  feeling  like  the  Methodist  lady 
who  poured  out  whisky  for  the  class  leaders  after  they  had 
presented  her  with  a  watch,  and  then  told  the  reporters  to 
say  she  had  suitably  responded. 

"  Heigho  !  I  have  talked  about  the  fashionable  people  I 
meet  in  London,  but  I  don't  want  to  be  one  of  them.  They 
do  nothing  but  rush  about,  dress,  gossip,  laugh,  love,  and 
plunge  into  all  the  delights  of  life.  That  is  not  my  idea  of 
existence.  I  am  ambitious.  I  want  to  do  something.  I  am 
tired  in  my  soul  of  doing  nothing.  Yes,  it  has  been  that  all 
along,  though  I  didn't  like  to  tell  you  so  before.  There  are 
people  who  are  born  in  the  midst  of  greatness  and  they 
don't  know  how  to  use  it.  But  to  be  one  of  the  world's 
celebrities,  that  i'S  so  different !  To  have  won  the  heart  of 
the  world,  so  that  the  world  knows  you  and  thinks  of  you 
and  loves  you !  Say  it  is  by  your  voice  you  do  it  and  that 
yoiu"  world  is  the  concert  hall,  or  even  the  music  hall — what 
matter  ?  You  needn't  live  music  hall,  whatever  the  life  in- 
side of  it.  And  then  that  great  dark  void  peopled  with  faces 
that  laugh  or  cry  just  as  you  please  to  make  them — confess 
that  it  would  be  magnificent,  my  dear  ones  ! 

"  I  am  to  go  again  to-night  to  hear  what  Mr.  Sefton  has 
to  propose,  but  already  this  dingy  little  bedroom  smiles 
upon  me,  and  even  the  broken  tiles  in  the  backyard  might 
be  the  pavement  of  paradise !     If  it  is  true  what  he  tells 

me Well,  he  that  hath  the  bride  is  the  bridegroom,  and 

if  my  doings  hereafter  don't  make  your  hair  curl  I  will  try 
to  show  the  inhabitants  of  this  stupid  old  earth  what  a 
woman  can  do  in  spite  of  every  disadvantage.  I  shall  not 
be  sorry  to  leave  this  place  either.  The  rats  in  these  old 
London  houses  (judging  by  their  cries  of  woe)  hold  a  night- 
ly carnival  for  the  eating  up  of  the  younger  members  of  the 
family.     And  then  Mrs.  Jupe  and  Mr.  Jupe — Mr.  Dupe  I 


IQg  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

call  him— she  deceives  him  so  dreadfully  with  her  gadding 
about But  anon,  anon,  good  people  ! 

"  It  is  New  Year's  Eve  to-day,  and  nearly  nine  months 
since  I  came  up  to  London.  Tempiis  fug  it !  In  fact 
tempus  is  fugit-ing  most  fearfully,  considering  that  I  am 
twenty-one  on  Sunday  next,  you  know,  and  that  I  haven't 
begun  to  do  anything  really.  The  snowdrops  must  be  mak- 
ing a  peep  at  Glenfaba  by  this  time,  and  Aunt  Rachel  will 
be  cutting  slips  of  the  rose  trees  and  putting  them  in  pots. 
Yandher  place  must  be  urromassy  *  nice  though,  with  snow 
on  the  roof  and  the  sloping  lawn,  and  the  windows  glisten- 
ing with  frost — just  like  a  girl  in  her  confirmation  veil  as 
she  stands  back  to  look  at  herself  in  the  glass.  I  intend  to 
see  the  New  Year  in  this  time  on  the  outside  of  St.  Paul's 
Cathedral,  where  people  congregate  in  thousands  as  twelve 
o'clock  approaches  to  carry  on  the  beautiful  fiction  that 
there  is  still  only  one  clock  in  London,  and  they  have  to 
hold  their  noses  in  the  air  to  watch  for  the  moment  when  it 
is  going  to  strike.  But  in  the  midst  of  the  light  and  life  of 
this  splendid  city  I  know  my  heart  will  go  back  with  a 
tender  twinge  to  the  little  dai*k  streets  on  the  edge  of  the 
sea,  where  the  Methodist  choirs  will  be  singing,  '  Hail,  smil- 
ing morn,'  preparatory  to  coffee  and  currant  cake. 

"  Who  will  be  your  '  first  foot '  this  year,  I  wonder  ?  It 
was  John  Storm  last  yeai",  you  remember,  and  being  as  dark 
as  a  gipsy,  he  made  a  perfect  qualtagh.^  And  how  we 
laughed  Avhen,  disguised  in  the  snow  that  was  falling  at  the 
time,  he  pretended  to  be  a  beggar  and  came  in  just  as  grand- 
father was  reading  the  bit  about  the  Good  Shepherd,  and 
how  he  loved  his  lambs — and  then  I  fovmd  him  out !  Ah 
me! 

"I  am  looking  perfectly  dazzling  in  a  new  hat  to-day, 
having  been  going  about  hitherto  in  one  of  those  little 
frights  that  used  to  be  cocked  up  on  the  top  of  your  hair 
like  a  hen  on  a  cornstack.  But  now  I  am  carrying  about 
the  Prince  of  Wales's  feathers,  and  if  he  could  only  see  me 
himself  in  them  ! 

*'  You  see  what  a  scatter-brained  creature  I  am  !    Leav- 


Out  of  mercy.  f  Manx  for  "  first  foot." 


THE  RELIGIOUS  LIFE.  199 

ing-  the  hospital  has  made  me  grow  so  much  younger  every 
day  that  I  am.  almost  afraid  I  may  come  to  contemplate 
short  frocks.  But  really  it's  the  first  time  I've  looked  nice 
for  an  eternity,  and  now  I  entirely  retract  and  repent  me  of 
all  I  said  about  wishing  to  be  a  man.  Being  a  girl,  I'll  put 
up  with  it,  and  if  all  the  old  mushroom  says  on  that  head 

also  is  true But  then  men  are  such  funny  things,  bless 

them !  Glory. 

"  P.  S. — No  word  from  John  Storm  yet.  Apparently  he 
never  thinks  of  us  now — of  me  at  all  events — and  I  suppose 
he  has  I'esigned  himself  and  taken  the  vows.  That's  one  kind 
of  religion,  I  dare  say,  but  I  can't  understand  it ;  and  I  don't 
know  how  a  dog,  even,  can  be  nailed  up  to  a  wall  and  not 
go  mad.  In  the  night  lying  in  bed  I  sometimes  think  of 
him.  A  dark  cell,  a  bench  for  a  bed,  a  crucifix,  and  no  other 
furniture,  praying  with  trembling  limbs  and  chattering 
teeth — No  ;  such  things  are  too  high  for  me  ;  I  can  not  reach 
to  them. 

''  It  seems  impossible  that  he  can  be  in  London  too.  What 
a  place  this  London  is  !  Such  a  mixture !  Fashion,  re- 
ligion, gaiety,  devotion,  pride,  depravity,  wealth,  poverty  !  I 
find  that  for  a  girl  to  succeed  in  London  her  moral  colour 
must  be  heightened  a  little.  Pinjane*  alone  won't  do. 
Give  her  a  slush  of  pissaves,i  and  she'll  go  down  sweeter. 
Angels  are  not  wanted  here  at  all.  The  only  angels  there 
are  in  London  are  kept  framed  in  the  church  windows,  and 
I  half  suspect  that  even  they  were  women  once,  and  liked 
bread  and  butter.  And  then  Nell  Gwynne's  flag  floats  from 
the  steeple  of  St.  Martin's  in  the  Fields,  and  now  and  again 
they  ring  the  bells  for  her ! " 


XI. 

At  eleven  o'clock  that  night  Glory  was  putting  on  her 
hi.t  and  cloak  to  return  home  when  the  call-boy  came  to  the 
di  essing-room  dooi'  to  say  that  the  stage  manager  was  wait- 
ing to  see  her.     With  a  little  catch  in  her  breath,  and  then 

*  Manx  dish,  like  Devonshire  junket.  +  Preserves. 


200  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

with  a  tightening  of  the  heart-strings,  she  followed  him  to 
the  stage  manager's  office.  It  was  a  stuffy  place  over  the 
porter's  lodge,  approached  by  a  flight  of  circular  iron  stairs 
and  lumbered  with  many  kinds  of  theatrical  property. 

"  Come  in,  my  dear,"  said  the  stage  manager,  and  push- 
ing away  some  models  of  scenery  he  made  room  for  her  on 
a  sofa  which  stood  by  a  fast-dying  fire.  Then  shutting  the 
door,  he  bobbed  his  head  at  her  and  winked  with  both  eyes, 
and  said  in  a  familiar  whisper  : 

"  It's  all  right,  my  dear.  I've  settled  that  little  matter 
for  you." 

"  Do  you  mean "  began  Gloiy,  and  then  she  waited 

with  parted  lips. 

"  It's  as  good  as  done,  my  dear.  Sit  down."  Glory  had 
risen  in  her  excitement.  "  Sit  down  and  I'll  tell  you  every- 
thing." 

He  had  spoken  to  his  management.  ''  Gentlemen,"  he 
had  said,  "  unless  I'm  mistaken  I've  found  a  prize."  They 
had  laughed.  He  was  always  finding  prizes.  But  he  knew 
what  he  was  talking  about,  and  they  had  given  him  carte 
blanche. 

"  You  think  there  is  really  some  likelihood,  then "  be- 
gan Glory,  with  the  catch  in  her  breath  again,  for  her  throat 
was  thick  and  lier  breast  was  heaving. 

"  Sit  down,  now  do  sit  down,  my  dear,  and  listen." 

He  Avas  suave,  he  was  flattering,  he  was  intimate,  he  was 
coaxing.  She  was  to  leave  everything  to  him.  Of  course, 
there  was  much  to  be  done  yet.  She  had  a  wonderful  voice ; 
it  was  finer  than  music.  She  had  style  as  well ;  it  was  as- 
tonishing liow  she  had  come  by  it.  Only  a  dresser,  too— not 
even  in  the  chorus.  But  stars  were  never  turned  out  by 
Nature.  Slie  had  many  things  to  learn,  and  would  have  to  b( 
coaclied  up  carefully  before  she  could  be  brought  out.  H« 
had  done  it  for  others;  though,  and  he  could  do  it  for  her 
and  if 

Glory's  eyes  were  shining  and  her  heart  was  beating  like 
a  drum. 

"  Their  you  think  that  eventually— if  I  work  hard— afl' 
years  perhaps " 

"  You  can't  do  it  on  your  own,  my  dear,  so  leave  yo^ 


THE   RELIGIOUS  LIFE.  201 

self  in  my  hands  entirely,  and  don't  whisper  a  word  about 
it  yet." 

"  Ah  ! "  It  was  like  a  dream  coming-  true  ;  she  oould 
scarcely  believe  in  it.  The  stage  manager  became  still  more 
suave  and  flattering  and  familiar.  If  she  "  caught  on," 
there  was  no  ktiowing  what  he  might  not  get  for  her — ten 
pounds  a  week — fifteen,  twenty,  twenty-five,  even  fifty  per- 
haps. 

Glory's  palpitation  was  becoming  painful,  and  at  the 
bottom  of  her  heart  there  was  a  certain  fear  of  this  sudden 
tide  of  fortune,  as  if  Providence  had  somehow  made  a  mis- 
take and  would  as  suddenly  find  it  out.  To  appease  her 
conscience  she  began  to  think  of  home  and  how  happy  she 
might  make  everybody  there  if  God  was  really  going  to  be 
so  good  to  her.  They  should  want  for  nothing  ;  they  should 
never  know  a  poor  day  again. 

Meantime  the  stage  manager  was  painting  another  pic- 
ture.    A  girl  didn't  go  a-begging  if  he  once  took  her  up. 

There  was  S .     She  was  only  an  "  auricomous  "  damsel, 

serving  in  a  tobacconist's  shop  in  the  Haymarket  when  he 
first  found  her,  and  now  where  was  she  ? 

"  Of  course,  I've  no  interest  of  my  own  to  serve,  my 
dear — none  whatever.  And  there'll  be  lots  of  people  to 
tempt  you  away  from  me  when  your  name  is  made." 

Glory  uttered  some  vehement  protest,  and  then  was  lost 
in  her  dreams  again. 

"  Well,  well,  we'll  see,"  said  the  stage  manager.  He 
was  looking  at  her  with  glittering  eyes. 

"  Do  you  know,  ray  dear,  you  are-  a  very  fine-looking 
young  woman  ? " 

Glory's  head  was  down,  her  face  was  flushed,  and  she 
was  turning  her  mother's  pearl  ring  around  her  finger.  He 
thought  she  was  overwhelmed  by  his  praises,  and  coming 
closer,  he  said : 

"  Dare  say  you've  got  a  good  stage  figure  too,  eh  ?  Pooh  ! 
Only  business,  j^ou  know  !  But  you  mustn't  be  shy  with 
me,  my  dear.  And  besides,  if  I  am  to  do  all  this  for  you, 
you  must  do  something  for  me  sometimes." 

She  hardly  heard  him.  Her  eyes  were  still  glistening 
with  the  far-off  look  of  one  who  gazes  on  a  beautiful  vision. 
14 


202 


THE  CHRISTIAX. 


"You  are  so  good,"  she  said.     "I  don't  know  what  to  say, 
or  liovv  to  thank  you." 

"  This  way,"  he  whispered,  and  leaning  over  to  her  he 
lifted  her  face  and  kissed  her. 

Then  her  poor  dream  of  glory  and  grandeur  and  happi 
ness  was  dispelled  in  a  moment,  and  she  awoke  with  a 
sense  of  outi-age  and  shame.  The  man's  praises  were  flat- 
tery ;  his  predictions  were  a  pretence ;  he  had  not  really 
meant  it  at  all,  and  she  had  heen  so  simple  as  to  helieve 
everything. 

"  Oh !  "  she  said,  with  the  feehle,  childish  cry  of  one  who 
has  received  a  pistol  wound  in  battle.  And  then  she  rose 
and  turned  to  go.  But  the  stage  manager,  who  was  laugh- 
ing noisily  out  of  his  hot  red  face,  stepped  between  her  and 
the  door. 

"  My  dear  child,  you  can't  mean — a  trifle  like  that !  " 

"  Open  the  door,  please,"  she  said  in  her  husky  voice. 

"  But  surely  you  don't  intend In  the  profession  we 

think  nothing,  you  know " 

"  Open  the  door,  sir  ! " 

"  Really — upon  my  word " 

When  she  came  to  herself  again  she  was  out  in  the  dark 
back  street,  and  the  snow  was  hard  and  dirty  vmder  foot, 
and  the  wind  was  high  and  cold,  and  she  was  running 
along  and  crying  like  a.  disappointed  child. 

The  bitterest  part  of  it  all  was  the  crushing  certainty 
that  she  had  no  talents  and  no  chances  of  success,  and  that 
the  man  had  only  painted  vip  his  fancy  picture  as  a  means 
of  deceiving  her.  Oh,  the  misery  of  being  a  woman  !  Oh, 
tlie  cruelty  of  tliis  great,  glorious,  devilisli  London,  where 
a  girl,  if  she  was  poor  and  alone,  could  live  only  by  her 
looks ! 

With  God  knows  what  lingering  remnant  of  expectation, 
but  feeling  broken  and  beaten  after  her  brave  fight  for  life, 
and  with  the  weak  woman  uppermost  at  last,  she  had  turned 
toward  the  liospital.  It  was  nearly  half-past  eleven  when 
she  got  there,  and  Big  Ben  was  chiming  tlie  half  hour  as 
she  a.scended  the  steps.  Bracing  herself  up,  she  looked  in  at 
the  porter's  door  witli  a  face  tliat  was  doing  its  best  to 
smile. 


THE  RELIGIOUS  LIFE.  203 

"  Any  letters  to-niglit,  porter  ?  " 

"  Not  to-night,  miss." 

"  No  ?  Well — none  to  get,  none  to  answer,  you  know. 
Happy  New  Year  to  you  !  " 

But  there  was  a  sob  in  her  laughter,  and  the  man  said  : 
"  I'd  be  sorry  to  miss  your  face,  nurse,  but  if  you'll  leave 
your  address  I'll  send  your  letters  on  and  save  you  the  jour- 
ney so  late  at  night." 

"  Oh,  uo — no,  there'll  be  no  more  lettei'S  now,  porter,  and 
— I'll  not  come  again.     Here  !  " 

"  No,  no,  miss." 

"  Yes,  yes,  you  must." 

She  forced  a  shilling  into  the  porter's  hand  in  spite  of 
his  protests,  and  then  fled  from  the  look  in  his  face  which 
seemed  to  her  to  say  that  he  would  like  to  return  her  six- 
pence. 

John  Storm  was  lost  to  her.  It  was  foolishness  to  go  on 
expecting  to  hear  from  him.  Had  he  not  told  her  that  the 
rule  under  which  the  brothers  lived  in  community  forbade 
them  to  write  and  receive  letters  except  by  special  permis- 
sion ?  But  she  had  expected  that  something  would  happen — • 
some  accident,  some  miracle,  she  hardly  knew  what.  That 
dream  was  over  now  ;  she  was  alone  ;  it  was  no  use  deceiv- 
ing herself  any  longer. 

She  went  home  by  the  back  streets,  for  people  were  peer- 
ing into  her  face,  and  she  thought  perhaps  she  had  been 
crying.  Late  as  it  was,  being  New  Year's  Eve,  there  were 
gi'oups  about  every  corner,  and  in  some  of  the  flagged 
courts  and  alleys  little  girls  were  dancing  to  the  music  of 
the  Italian  organ  man  or  turning  catherine-wheels.  As  she 
was  going  down  Long  Acre  a  creachy  voice  saluted  her. 

"  Evening,  miss  !     Going  home  early,  ain't  ye  ? " 

It  was  a  miserable-looking  woman  in  clothes  that  might 
have  been  stolen  from  a  scarecrow. 

"  Market  full  to-night,  my  dear  ?  Look  as  if  the  dodgers 
had  been  at  ye.  Live  ?  I  live  off  of  the  lane.  But  lor' 
bless  ye,  I've  lived  in  a-mauy  places  !  Seen  the  day  I  lived 
in  Soho  Square.  I  was  on  the  'alls  then.  Grot  a  bit  quisby 
on  my  top  notes,  you  know,  and  took  the  scarlet  fever — 
soldier,  I  mean,  my  dear.     But  where's  the  use  of  frettin'  ? 


204 


THE  CHRISTIAN. 


I  likes  to  be  jolly,  and  I  allwiz  is.  Doing  now  ?  Selling 
llowers  outside  the  theatres— police  is  nasty  if  you've  got 
nothink.  Ain't  I  going  home  ?  Soon  as  I  get  a  drain  of 
white  satin.     Wish  you  luck,  my  dear  !     S'long  !  " 

As  she  came  up  to  the  shop  in  the  Turnstile  she  could 
hear  that  it  was  noisy  with  the  voices  of  men  and  girls,  so 
.she  turned  back  through  Lincoln"s-Inn  Fields  and  passed 
down  to  Fleet  Street.  It  was  appi'oaching  twelve  o'clock  by 
this  time,  and  streams  of  people  were  flowing  in  the  direc- 
tion of  St.  Paul's  Cathedral.  Glory  turned  eastward  also 
and  allowed  herself  to  be  carried  along  with  the  current 
which  babbled  and  talked  like  a  river  in  the  night. 

Immediately  in  front  of  her  there  was  a  line  of  girls  walk- 
ing arm-in-arm  across  the  width  of  the  pavement.  They 
were  factory  girls  in  big  hats  with  ostrich  feathers,  and  as 
tliey  skipped  along  with  their  free  step  they  sang  snatches  of 
Salvation  hymns  and  music-hall  songs.  All  at  once  they 
gave  a  shrill  peal  of  laughter,  and  one  of  them  cried,  "  Tell 
me  what  it  is  and  I'll  give  it  a  nyme."  At  the  next  mo- 
ment a  strange  figure  was  forging  past  their  line,  going 
westward  with  long  strides.  It  was  a  man  in  the  habit  of 
a  monk,  with  long  black  cassock  and  broad-brimmed  hat. 
Gloiy  caught  a  glimpse  of  his  face  as  he  passed  her.  It  was 
a  hungiy,  eager  face,  with  big,  melancholy  eyes,  and  it 
seemed  to  her  that  she  must  have  seen  it  before  somewhere. 
The  wind  was  very  cold,  and  the  gi'eat  cross  on  the  dome  of 
the  cathedral  stood  out  like  a  beacon  against  flying  clouds. 

St.  Paul's  churchyard  was  thronged  with  noisy,  happy 
people,  and  down  to  the  last  minute  before  the  hour  they 
shouted  and  joked  and  laughed.  Then  there  was  a  hush, 
tlie  great  crowds  seemed  to  hold  their  breath  as  if  they  had 
been  a  single  living  creatui'e,  and  every  face  was  turned  i;p- 
ward  to  the  clock.  The  clock  struck,  the  bells  of  the  cathe- 
dral began  to  ring,  the  people  cheered  and  saluted  each 
other  and  shook  hands  on  every  side,  and  then  the  dense 
mass  broke  up. 

Gloi-y  could  liave  cried  for  joy  of  it  all — it  was  so  simple, 
so  hmnan,  so  childlike.  But  she  listened  to  the  laughter 
and  salutations  of  tlie  jjcople  about  her  and  felt  more 
lonely  than  the  Bedouin  in  the  desert;  she  remembered  the 


THE  RELIGIOUS  LIFE.  205 

bubbling  hopes  that  had  carried  her  through  the  day,  and 
her  heart  fell  low ;  she  thought  of  the  letter  whicli  she  had 
posted  home  on  her  way  to  the  theatre,  and  two  great  tears 
came  rolling  from  her  eyes. 

The  face  of  the  monk  tormented  her,  and  suddenly  she 
bethought  herself  whose  face  it  must  have  been.  It  must 
have  been  the  face  of  Polly  Love's  brother.  He  belonged 
to  the  Bishopsgate  Fathers,  and  had  once  been  a  patient  in 
the  hospital,  and  perhaps  he  was  going  there  now  on  some 
errand  or  urgent  message — to  the  doctors  or  to 

"  It  was  foolish  not  to  leave  my  address  when  the  porter 
asked  me,"  she  thought.  She  would  go  back  and  do  so. 
There  could  be  no  harm  in  that ;  and  if  anything  had  really 
happened,  if  John 

"  Happy  New  Year  to  you,  my  dear ! " 

Somebody  in  the  drifting  crowd  was  standing  before  her 
and  blocking  the  way.  It  was  Agatha  Jones  in  a  mock  seal- 
skin coat  and  big  black  hat  surmounted  by  black  feathers, 
and  with  Charlie  Wilkes  (with  his  diminutive  cap  pushed 
back  from  his  oily  fringe  and  pimpled  forehead)  leaning 
heavily  on  her  arm. 

"  Well,  I  never !  Who'd  have  thought  of  meeting  you 
in  St.  Paul's  churchyawd  ! " 

Gloiy  tried  to  laugh  and  to  return  the  salutation  over 
the  noises  of  the  people  and  the  clangour  of  the  bells.  And 
then  Aggie  put  her  face  close,  as  women  do  who  are  accus- 
tomed to  talking  in  the  street,  and  said:  "Thought  we'd 
seen  the  lahst  of  you,  my  dear,  when  you  went  off  that 
night  sudden.     Selling  programmes  somewhere  else  now  ? " 

"Something  of  that  sort,"  said  Glory. 

"  I'm  not.  I've  been  left  the  old  red  church  this  fort- 
night and  more.  Charlie's  got  me  on  the  clubs.— But  my 
word  !  "  turning  to  Charlie,  "it's  her  as  oughter  be  there,  my 
dear  I " 

"  She  cheeks  me  out,"  said  Charlie,  "  as  you'll  knock  the 
stuffing  out  of  Betty  Bellman  'erself  if  you  once  myke  a 
stawt." 

And  Aggie  said  :  "  I  might  get  you  to  do  a  turn  almost 
any  Sunday,  if  you  like,  my  dear.  There's  always  some- 
body as  down't  come,  and  they're  glad  of  an  extra  turn  to 


206  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

tyke  the  number  if  slie's  only  clever  enough  to  ger-a  few 
auds.     Going  'ome,  dear  ?  "  n^ 

"  Yes,"  said  Glory.  V 

"  Where  d'ye  live  ? "'  said  Aggie,  and  Glorj-  told  her.  T^^ 

"I'll  call  for  you  Sunday  night  at  eight,  and  if  yoif"    ^ 
down't  tyke  your  chawnce  when  you  get  it,  you're  a  fool- 
isher  woman  than  I  thought  you  were,  that's  stright !    By- 
bye!" 

XII. 

Always  at  half-past  five  in  the  morning  the  Father 
Superior  began  to  awaken  the  Brotherhood.  It  took  him  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  to  pass  through  the  house  on  that  errand, 
for  the  infirmities  of  his  years  were  upon  him.  During  this 
interval  John  Stoi-m  had  intended  to  open  the  gate  to  Paul 
and  then  return  the  key  to  its  place  in  the  Father's  room. 
The  time  was  short,  and  to  lose  no  part  of  it  he  had  resolved 
to  remain  awake  the  whole  night  through. 

There  was  little  need  to  make  a  call  on  that  resolution. 
With  fear  and  remorse  he  could  not  close  his  eyes,  and  from 
hour  to  hour  he  heard  every  sound  of  the  streets.  At  one 
o'clock,  the  voices  singing  outside  were  strained  and  cracked 
and  out  of  tune  ;  at  two,  they  were  brutish  and  drunken  and 
mingled  with  shrieks  of  quarrelling;  at  three,  there  was 
silence ;  at  four,  the  butchers'  wagons  were  rattling  on  the 
stones  from  the  shambles  across  the  river  to  the  meat  mar- 
kets of  London,  with  the  carcasses  of  the  thousands  of  beasts 
that  were  slaughtered  overnight  to  feed  the  body  of  the 
monster  on  the  morrow  ;  and  at  five,  the  postal  vans  were 
galloj)ing  from  the  railway  stations  to  the  post-office  with 
the  millions  of  letters  that  were  to  feed  its  mind. 

At  half-past  five  the  Father  had  come  out  of  his  room 
and  passed  slowly  upstairs,  and  John  Storm  was  in  the 
courtyard  opening  the  lock  of  the  outer  gate.  Although 
there  was  a  feeling  of  morning  in  the  freezing  air  it  was  still 
quite  dark. 

"  Paul."  he  whispered,  but  there  was  no  answer. 

"  Rrotlu>r  Paul ! "  he  whispered  again,  and  then  waited, 
but  there  was  no  reply. 


«     THE  RELIGIOUS  LIFE.  207 

It  was  not  at  first  that  he  realized  the  tremendous  gravity 
of  what  had  occurred — that  Brother  Paul  had  not  returned, 
and  that  he  must  go  back  to  the  house  without  him.  He 
kept  calling  into  the  darkness  until  he  remembered  that  the 
Father  would  be  down  in  his  room  again  soon  and  looking 
for  the  key  where  he  had  left  it. 

Back  in  the  hall,  he  reproached  himself  with  his  haste, 
and  concluded  to  return  to  the  gate.  There  would  be  time 
to  do  it ;  the  Father  was  still  far  overhead  ;  his  "  Benedica- 
mus  Domino "  was  passing  from  corridor  to  corridor ;  and 
Paul  might  be  coming  down  the  sti^eet. 

"  Paul !  Paul !  "  he  cried  again,  and  opening  the  gate  he 
looked  out.  But  there  was  no  one  on  the  pavement  except 
a  drunken  man  and  a  girl,  singing  themselves  home  in  the 
dead  waste  of  the  New  Year's  morning. 

Then  the  truth  fell  on  him  like  a  thunderclap,  and  he 
hurried  back  to  the  house  for  good.  By  this  time  the  Father 
was  coming  down  the  stairs,  and  had  reached  the  landing  of 
the  first  story.  Snatching  up  from  the  bed  in  the  alcove 
the  book  which  had  been  lying  there  all  night  unregarded, 
he  crept  into  the  Father's  room.  He  was  coming  out  of  it 
when  he  came  face  to  face  with  the  Father  himself,  who 
was  on  the  point  of  going  in. 

"  I  have  been  returning  the  book  you  lent  me,"  he  said, 
and  then  he  tried  to  steal  away  in  his  shame.  But  the 
Father  held  him  a  while  in  playful  remonstrance.  The 
hours  were  not  all  saved  that  were  stolen  from  the  night, 
and  his  swelled  eyes  this  morning  were  a  testimony  to  the 
musty  old  maxim.  Still,  with  a  book  like  that,  his  diligence 
was  not  to  be  wondered  at,  and  it  would  be  interesting  to 
hear  what  he  thought  of  it.  He  couldn't  say  as  yet.  That 
wasn't  to  be  wondered  at  either.  Somebody  had  said  that  a 
great  book  was  like  a  great  mountain — not  to  be  seen  to  the 
top  while  you  were  still  too  near  to  it. 

John's  duplicity  was  choking  him.  His  eyes  were 
averted  from  the  Father's  face,  for  he  had  lost  the  power 
of  looking  straight  at  any  one,  and  he  could  see  the  key  of 
the  gate  still  shaking  from  the  hook  on  which  his  nerv- 
ous fingers  had  placed  it.  When  he  escaped  at  length, 
the  Father  asked  him  to  ring  the  bell  for  Lauds,  as  Brother 


2Qg  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

Andrew,  whose  duty  it  was,  had  evidently  overslept  him- 
self. 

John  rang  the  bell,  and  then  took  his  lamp  and  some 
tapers  from  a  shelf  in  the  hall  and  went  out  to  the  church 
to  light  the  candles,  for  that  also  was  Brother  Andrew's 
duty.  As  he  was  crossing  the  courtyard  on  his  way  back  to 
the  house,  he  passed  the  Father  going  to  open  the  gate. 

"  But  what  has  become  of  your  hat  ? "  said  the  Father, 
and  then,  for  the  first  time,  John  remembered  what  he  had 
done  with  it. 

"  I've  lent— that  is  to  say,  I've  lost  it,"  he  answered,  and 
then  stood  with  his  eyes  on  the  ground  while  the  Father 
reproved  him  for  heedlessness  of  health,  and  so  forth. 

It  is  part  of  the  perversity  of  circumstance  that  while  an 
incident  of  the  greatest  gravity  is  occurring,  its  ridiculous 
coujiterpart  is  usually  taking  place  by  the  side  of  it.  When 
the  religious  had  gathered  in  the  church  it  was  seen  that 
three  of  the  stalls  were  vacant— Brother  Paul's,  Brother 
Andrew's,  and  the  Father  Minister's.  The  service  had  hard- 
ly begun  when  the  bell  was  heard  to  ring  again,  and  with 
a  louder  clangour  than  before,  whei'eupon  the  religious  con- 
cluded that  Brother  Andrew  had  awakened  from  his  sleep, 
and  was  i-emembering  with  remorse  his  belated  duty. 

But  it  was  the  Fatlier  Minister.  That  silent  and  severe 
person  had  oftentimes  rebuked  the  lay  brother  for  his  sleepi- 
ness, and  this  morning  he  had  himself  been  overcome  by  the 
same  infirmity.  Awakening  suddenly  a  little  after  six  by 
the  watch  that  hung  by  his  bed,  he  had  thought,  ''  That  lazy 
fellow  is  late  again — I'll  teach  him  a  lesson."  Leaping  to 
liis  feet  (the  monk  sleeps  in  his  habit),  he  had  hastened  to 
the  bell  and  rung  it  furiously,  and  then  snatched  up  a  taper 
and  hurried  down  the  stall's  to  light  the  candles  in  the 
church.  When  he  appeared  at  the  sacristy  door  -with  a 
lighted  taper  in  his  hand  and  confusion  on  his  face,  the 
l)rc)tliers  understood  everything  at  a  glance,  and  not  even 
the  solemnity  of  the  service  could  smother  the  snufflings  of 
their  laughter. 

The  incident  was  a  trivial  one,  but  it  diverted  attention 
for  a  time  from  the  fact  of  Paul's  absence,  and  when  the 
religious  went  back  to  the  house  and  found  Brother  Andrew 


THE  RELIGIOUS  LIFE.  209 

returned  to  his  old  duty  as  doorkeeper,  the  laughter  was  re- 
newed, and  there  was  some  playful  banter. 

The  monk  is  so  far  a  child  that  the  least  thing  happening 
in  the  morning  is  enough  to  detei-mine  the  temper  of  the 
day,  and  as  late  as  the  hour  for  breakfast  the  house  was  still 
rippling  with  the  humour  .of  the  Father  Minister's  misad- 
venture. There  was  one  seat  vacant  in  the  refectory — 
Brother  Paul's — and  the  Superior  was  the  fir.st  to  observe  it. 
With  a  twinkle  in  his  eye,  he  said  : 

"  I  feel  like  Boy  Blue  this  morning.  Two  of  my  stray 
sheep  have  come  home,  bringing  their  tails  behind  them. 
Will  anybody  go  in  search  of  tlie  third  ? '' 

John  Storm  i*ose  immediately,  but  a  lay  brother  was  be- 
fore him,  so  he  sat  down  again  witli  his  white  cheeks  and 
quivering  lips,  and  made  an  effort  to  eat  his  breakfast. 

The  reader  for  the  week  recited  the  Scripture  for  the  day, 
and  then  took  up  the  book  which  the  brothei'S  were  hearing 
at  their  meals.  It  was  the  Life  and  Death  of  Father  Igna- 
tius of  St.  Paul,  and  the  chapter  they  had  come  to  dealt  with 
certain  amusing  examples  of  vanities  and  foibles.  An  evil 
spirit  might  have  selected  it  with  special  reference  to  the 
incidents  of  the  morning,  for  at  every  fresh  illustration  the 
Father  Minister  squirmed  on  his  seat,  and  the  brothers  looked 
across  at  him  and  laughed  with  a  spice  of  mischief,  and  even 
a  touch  of  malice. 

John's  eyes  were  on  the  door,  and  his  heart  was  quiver- 
ing, but  the  messenger  did  not  return  during  breakfast,  and 
when  it  was  over  the  Superior  rose  without  waiting  for  him 
and  led  the  way  to  the  community  room. 

A  fire  was  burning  in  the  wide  grate,  and  the  room  was 
cheerful  Avith  reflected  sun-rays,  for  the  sun  was  shining  in 
the  courtyard  and  glistening  on  the  frosty  boughs  of  the 
sycamore.  It  was  a  beautiful  New  Year's  morning,  and  the 
Father  began  to  tell  some  timely  stories.  In  the  midst  of 
the  laughter  that  greeted  them  the  lay  brother  returned 
and  delivered  his  message.  Brother  Paul  could  not  be 
found,  and  there  was  not  a  sign  of  him  anywhere  in  the 
house. 

"  That's  strange,"  said  the  religious. 

"  Perhaps  he  is  in  his  cell,"  said  the  Father. 


210 


THE  CHRISTIAN. 


"  No,  lie  is  not  there,"  said  the  messenger,  "  and  his  bed 
has  not  been  slept  in." 

"Now,  that  explains  something,"  said  the  Father.  "I 
thought  he  didn't  answer  when  I  knocked  at  his  door  in  the 
morning,  but  my  ears  grow  dull  and  my  eyes  are  failing 
me,  and  I  told  mj'self  perhaps " 

"  It's  very  strange ! "  said  the  religious,  with  looks  of 
astonishment. 

"  But  perhaps  he  staid  all  night  at  his  penance  in  the 
church,"  said  the  Father. 

"  Apparently  his  hat  did  so  at  all  events,"  said  one  of  the 
brothers.  ''  I  saw  it  lying  with  his  lamp  on  the  stall  in 
front  of  me." 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment,  and  then  the  Father 
said  with  a  smile  : 

"  But  my  children  are  so  amusing  in  such  matters ! 
Only  this  morning  I  had  to  reprove  Brother  Storm  for 
losing  his  hat  somewhere,  and  now  Brother  Paul " 

By  an  involuntary  impulse,  obscure  to  themselves,  the 
brothers  turned  toward  John,  who  was  standing  in  the 
recess  of  one  of  the  windows  with  his  pale  face  looking  out 
on  the  sunshine. 

Jolin  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"Father,"  he  said,  "I  have  something  to  say  to  you." 

"  Come  this  way,"  said  the  Superior,  and  they  passed  out 
of  the  room  together. 

The  Father  led  the  way  to  his  room  and  closed  the  door 
behind  them.  But  there  was  little  need  for  confession  ;  the 
Father  seemed  to  know  everything  in  an  instant.  He  sat 
in  his  wicker  chair  before  the  fire  and  rocked  himself  and 
moaned. 

"  Well,  well,  God's  wrath  comes  up  against  the  children 
of  di.sobedience,  but  we  must  do  our  best  to  bear  our  punish- 
ment." 

John  Storm  made  no  excuses.  He  had  stood  by  the 
Futlior's  chair  and  told  his  story  simply,  without  fear  or 
remoi-se,  only  concealing  that  part  of  it  which  concerned 
liimsolf  in  relation  to  Glory. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  tlie  Father,  "  I  see  quite  i)lainly  how  it 
has  been.    He  was  like  tinder,  ready  to  take  lire  at  a  spark, 


THE   RELIGIOUS  LIFE.  211 

and  you  were  thinking  I  had  been  hard  and  cruel  and  in- 
human." 

It  was  the  truth ;  John  couki  not  deny  it ;  he  held  down 
his  head  and  was  silent. 

"  But  shall  I  tell  you  why  I  refused  that  poor  boy's  peti- 
tion ?  Shall  I  tell  you  who  he  was,  and  how  he  came  to 
be  here  ?  Yes,  I  will  tell  you.  Nobody  in  this  house  has 
heard  it  until  now,  because  it  was  his  secret  and  mine  and 
God's  alone — not  given  me  in  confession,  no,  or  it  would 
have  to  be  locked  in  my  breast  forever.  But  you  have 
thrust  yourself  in  between  us,  so  you  must  hear  every- 
thing, and  may  the  Lord  pity  and  forgive  you  and  help 
you  to  bear  your  burden  !  " 

John  felt  that  a  cold  damp  was  breaking  out  on  his  fore- 
head, but  he  clinched  his  moist  hands  and  made  ready  to 
control  himself. 

"  Has  he  ever  spoken  of  another  sister  ?  " 

"  Yes,  he  has  sometimes  mentioned  her." 

"  Then  perhaps  you  have  been  told  of  the  painful  and 
tragic  event  that  happened  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  John,  but  something  that  he  had  heard  at  the 
board  meeting  at  the  hospital  returned  at  that  moment  with 
a  stunning  force  to  his  memory. 

"  His  father,  poor  man,  was  one  of  my  own  people — one 
of  the  lay  associates  of  our  society  in  the  world  outside. 
But  his  health  gave  way,  his  business  failed  him,  and  he 
died  in  a  madhouse,  leaving  his  three  children  to  the  care 
of  a  friend.  The  friend  was  thought  to  be  a  worthy,  and 
even  a  pious  man,  but  he  was  a  scoundrel  and  a  traitor. 
The  j^ounger  sister — the  one  you  know — he  committed  to  an 
orphanage ;  the  elder  one  he  deceived  and  ruined.  As  a 
sequel  to  his  sin,  she  lived  a  life  of  shame  on  the  streets  of 
London,  and  died  by  suicide  at  the  end  of  it." 

John  Storm  put  up  one  hand  to  his  head  as  if  his  brain 
was  bursting,  and  witli  the  other  hand  he  held  on  to  the 
Father's  chair. 

"  That  was  bad  enough,  but  there  was  worse  to  follow. 
Our  poor  Paul  had  grown  to  be  a  man  by  this  time,  and 
Satan  put  it  into  his  heart  to  avenge  his  sister's  dishonour. 
'As  the  whirlwind  passeth,  so  the  wicked  are  no  more.' 


212 


THE  CHRISTIAN. 


The  betrayer  of  his  trust  was  found  dead  in  his  room,  slain 
by  an  unknown  assassin.     Brother  Paul  had  killed  him." 

John  Storm  had  fallen  to  his  knees.  If  hell  itself  had 
opened  at  his  feet  he  could  not  have  been  stricken  with 
moi*e  horror.  In  a  voice  strangled  by  fear  he  stammered  : 
"  But  why  didn't  you  tell  me  this  before  ?  Why  have  you 
hidden  it  until  now  ? " 

"  Passions,  my  son,  are  the  same  in  a  monastery  as  out- 
side of  it,  and  I  had  too  much  reason  to  fear  that  the  saint- 
liest  soul  in  our  Brotherhood  would  have  refused  to  live 
and  eat  and  sleep  in  the  same  house  with  a  murderer.  But 
the  poor  soul  had  come  to  me  like  a  hunted  beast,  and  who 
was  I  that  I  should  turn  my  back  upon  him  ?  Before  that 
lie  had  tramped  through  the  streets  and  slept  in  the  parks, 
imder  the  imjjression  that  the  police  were  pursuing  him, 
and  thereby  he  had  contracted  the  lung  disease  from  which 
he  suffers  still.  What  was  I  to  do  ?  Give  him  up  to  the 
law  ?  Who  shall  tell  me  how  I  could  have  held  the  bal- 
ance level  ?  I  took  him  into  my  house ;  I  sheltered  him  ;  I 
made  him  a  member  of  our  community ;  Heaven  forgive 
me,  I  suflFered  myself  to  receive  his  vows.  It  was  for  me 
to  comfort  his  stricken  body,  for  the  Church  to  heal  his 
wounded  soul ;  and  as  for  his  crime,  that  was  in  God's 
hands,  and  God  alone  could  deal  with  it." 

The  Father  had  risen  to  his  feet,  and  he  spoke  the  last 
words  with  uplifted  hand. 

"  Now  you  know  why  I  refused  that  poor  boy's  petition. 
I  loved  him  as  a  son,  but  neither  the  disease  of  his  body 
nor  the  weakness  of  his  mind  could  break  the  firmness  of 
the  rule  by  which  I  held  him.  I  knew  that  Satan  was 
dragging  him  away  from  me,  and  I  would  not  give  him  up 
to  the  sufferings  and  dangers  which  the  Evil  One  was  pre- 
paring for  him  in  the  world.  But  how  subtle  are  the  temp- 
tations of  the  devil !  He  found  the  weak  place  in  my  ar- 
mour at  last.  He  found  you,  my  son— you  ;  and  he  tempted 
you  by  all  your  love,  by  all  your  pity,  by  all  your  tender- 
ness, and  you  fell,  and  this  is  the  consequence." 

The  Father  clasped  his  hands  at  his  breast  and  walked 
to  and  fro  in  the  little  room. 

"The  bitterness  of  the  world  against  religious  houses  is 


THE  RELIGIcftJS  LIFE.  213 

great  already ;  but  if  anything  should  happen  now,  if  a 
crime  should  be  committed,  if  our  poor  bi'other,  clad  in  the 
habit  of  our  Order " 

He  stopped  and  crossed  himself  and  lifted  his  eyes,  and 
said  in  a  tremulous  whisper :  "  O  God,  whom  have  I  in 
heaven  but  thee  ?  My  flesh  and  my  heart  faileth ;  but 
God  is  the  strength  of  my  heart  and  my  portion  for- 
ever." 

John  had  staggered  to  his  feet  like  a  drunken  man. 
"  Father,"  he  said,  "  send  me  away  fi'om  you.  I  am  not  fit 
to  live  by  your  side." 

The  Father  laid  both  hands  on  his  shoulders.  "And 
shall  I  lower  my  flag  to  the  enemy  like  that  ?  Thei'e  is  only 
one  way  to  defeat  the  devil,  and  that  is  to  defy  him.  No, 
no,  my  son,  you  shall  remain  with  me  to  the  last." 

"  Punish  me,  then.  Give  me  penance.  Let  me  be  the 
lowest  of  the  low  and  the  meanest  of  the  mean.  Only  tell 
me  what  I  am  to  do  and  I  will  do  it." 

"  Go  back  to  the  door  and  resume  your  duty  as  door- 
keeper." 

John  looked  at  the  Father  with  an  expression  of  be- 
wilderment. 

"  I  thought  you  had  done  with  it,  my  son,  but  Heaven 
knew  better.  And  promise  that  wlien  you  are  there  you 
will  pray  for  our  wandering  brother,  that  he  may  not  be 
allowed  to  fulfil  the  errand  on  which  you  sent  him  out; 
pray  that  he  may  never  find  his  sister,  or  anybody  who 
knows  her  and  can  tell  him  where  she  is  and  what  has  be- 
come of  her  ;  pray  that  she  may  never  cross  his  path  to  the 
last  hour  of  life  and  the  first  of  death's  sundering ;  promise 
to  pray  for  this,  my  son,  night  and  day,  morning  and  even- 
ing, with  all  your  soul  and  strength,  as  you  would  pray  for 
God's  mercy  and  your  soul's  salvation." 

John  did  not  answer ;  he  was  like  a  man  in  a  stupor. 
"  Is  it  possible  ? "  he  said.  "  Are  you  sending  me  back  to 
the  door  ?    Can  you  trust  me  again  ? " 

The  Father  stepped  to  the  side  of  the  bed  and  took  the 
key  of  the  gate  from  its  place  under  the  shelf.  "  Take  this 
key  vnth  you,  too,  because  for  the  future  you  are  to  be  the 
keeper  of  the  gate  as  well." 


214 


THE  CHRISTIAN. 


John  had  taken  the  key  mechanically,  hardly  hearing 
what  was  being  said. 

"  Is  it  true,  then — have  you  got  faith  in  me  still  ?  " 

The  Fatlier  put  both  hands  on  his  shoulders  again  and 
looked  into  his  face.  "  God  has  faith  in  you,  my  child,  and 
who  am  I  that  I  should  despair  ? " 

When  John  Storm  returned  to  the  door  his  mind  was 
in  a  state  of  stupefaction.  Many  hours  passed  during  whicli 
he  was  only  partly  conscious  of  what  was  taking  place  about 
him.  Sometimes  he  was  aw^are  that  certain  of  the  brothers 
had  gathered  around,  with  a  tingling,  electrical  atmosphere 
among  them,  and  that  they  were  asking  questions  about  the 
escape,  and  whispering  together  as  if  it  had  been  something 
courageous  and  almost  commendable,  and  had  set  their  hearts 
beating.  Again,  sometimes  he  was  aware  that  big  Brother 
Andrew  was  sitting  by  his  side  on  the  form,  stroking  his 
arm  from  time  to  time,  and  talking  in  his  low  voice  and 
aimless  way  about  his  mother  and  the  last  he  saw  of  her. 
"She  followed  me  down  the  street  crying,"  he  said,  "and  I 
have  often  thought  of  it  since  and  been  tempted  to  run 
away."  Also  he  was  aware  that  the  dog  was  w4th  him 
always,  licking  the  backs  of  his  stiff  hands  and  poking  up  a 
cold  muzzle  into  his  downcast  face. 

All  this  time  he  was  doing  his  duties  automatically  and 
apparently  without  help  from  his  consciousness,  opening 
and  closing  the  door  as  the  brothers  passed  in  and  out  on 
their  errands  to  the  dead  and  dying,  and  saying,  "  Praise  be 
to  God  ! "  when  a  stranger  knocked.  It  may  be  that  his 
body  was  merely  answering  to  the  habits  of  its  intellect,  and 
that  liis  soul,  Avhich  had  sustained  a  terrible  blow,  was  lying 
stunned  and  swooning  within. 

Wlien  it  revived  and  he  began  to  know  and  to  feel  once 
more,  there  was  no  one  with  him,  for  the  brothei-s  wore 
asleep  in  their  beds  and  the  dog  was  in  the  courtyard,  and 
the  house  was  very  quiet,  for  it  was  the  middle  of  the  night. 
And  tlien  it  came  back  to  him,  like  a  dream  remembered  in 
the  morning,  that  the  Father  had  asked  him  to  pray  for 
Brother  Paul  that  he  miglit  fail  in  tlie  errand  on  whicli  he  had 
sent  liim  out  into  tlie  world,  and  though  with  his  li])s  e  had 
not  promised,  yet  in  his  lieart  he  had  undertakcii  to  <•■.  so. 


THE   RELIGIOUS  LIFE.  215 

And  being'  quite  alone  now,  with  no  one  but  God  for 
company,  he  went  down  on  his  knees  in  his  place  by  the 
door  and  clasped  his  hands  together. 

"  O  God,"  he  prayed,  "  have  pity  on  Paul,  and  on  me,  and 
on  all  of  us !  Keep  him  from  all  danger  and  suffering  and 
from  the  snares  and  assaults  of  the  Evil  One !  Grant  that 
he  may  never  find  his  sister — or  anybody  who  knows  her — 
or  anybody  who  can  tell  him  where  she  is  and  what  has 
become  of  her " 

But  having  got  so  far  he  could  get  no  farther,  for  sud- 
denly it  occurred  to  him  that  this  was  a  prayer  which  con- 
cerned Glory  and  himself  as  well.  It  was  only  then  that 
he  realized  the  magnitude  and  awfulness  of  the  task  he  had 
undertaken.  He  had  undertaken  to  ask  God  that  Paul 
might  not  find  Glory  either,  and  therefore  that  he  on  his 
part  might  never  hear  of  her  again.  When  he  put  it  to 
himself  like  that,  the  sweat  started  from  his  forehead  and 
he  was  transfixed  with  fear. 

He  rose  from  his  knees  and  sat  on  the  form,  and  for  a 
long  hour  he  laboured  in  the  thought  of  a  thousand  possi- 
bilities, telling  himself  of  the  many  things  which  might 
befall  a  beautiful  girl  in  a  cruel  and  wicked  city.  But  then 
again  he  thought  of  Paul  and  of  his  former  crime  and  pres- 
ent temptation,  and  remembered  the  shadow  that  hung  over 
the  Brotherhood. 

"  O  God,  help  me,"  he  cried  ;  "  strengthen  me,  support 
me,  guide  me  !  " 

He  tried  to  frame  another  pi'ayer,  but  the  words  would 
not  come ;  he  tried  to  kneel  as  before,  but  his  knees  would 
not  bend.  How  could  he  pray  that  Glory  also  might  be 
lost — that  something  might  have  happened  to  her— that 
somewhere  and  in  some  way  unknown  to  him 

No,  no,  a  thousand  times  no !  The  prayer  was  impos- 
sible. Let  come  what  would,  let  the  danger  to  Paul  and 
to  the  Brotherhood  be  what  it  might,  let  Satan  and  all  his 
legions  fall  on  him,  yet  he  could  not  and  would  not  utter  it. 


216  THE  CHRISTIAN. 


XIII. 

The  stars  were  paling,  but  the  day  had  not  yet  dawned, 
when  there  carne  a  knock  at  the  door.  John  started  and 
listened.  After  an  interval  the  knock  was  repeated.  It  was 
a  timid,  hesitating  tap,  as  if  made  with  the  tips  of  the  fingers 
low  down  on  tlie  door. 

"  Praise  be  to  God  !  "  said  John,  and  he  drew  the  slide  of 
the  grating.  He  had  expected  to  see  a  face  outside,  but  there 
was  nothing  there. 

"  Who  is  it? "  he  asked,  and  there  came  no  answei*. 

He  took  up  the  lamp  that  was  kept  burning  in  the  hall 
and  looked  out  through  the  bars.  There  was  nothing  in  the 
darkness  but  an  icy  nii.st,  which  appeared  to  be  rising  from 
the  ground. 

"  Only  another  of  my  dreams,"  he  thought,  and  he  laid 
his  hand  on  the  slide  to  close  it. 

Then  he  heard  a  sigh  that  seemed  to  rise  out  of  the  ground, 
and  at  the  same  moment  the  dog  uttered  a  deep  bay.  He 
laid  hold  of  the  door  and  pulled  it  quickly  open.  At  his 
feet  the  figure  of  a  man  was  kneeling,  bent  double  and  hud- 
dled up. 

"  Paul !  "  he  cried  in  an  excited  whisper. 

Brother  Paul  raised  his  head.  His  face  was  frightfully 
changed.  It  was  gray  and  wasted.  His  eyes  wandered,  his 
lips  trembled,  and  he  looked  like  a  man  who  had  been 
flogged. 

"  Good  Lord,  what  a  wreck  ! "  thought  John.  He  helped 
him  to  rise  and  enter.  The  poor  creature's  limbs  were  stifit' 
with  cold,  and  he  stumbled  from  weakness  as  he  crossed  the 
threshold. 

"  But,  thank  God,  you  are  back  and  no  harm  done  ! "  said 
John.  "  How  anxious  we've  been  !  You  must  never  go  out 
again — never!     There,  brotlier,  .sit  there." 

The  wandering  eyes  looked  up  with  a  supplicating  expres- 
sion.    "  Forgive  me.  Brother  Storm " 

But  John  would  not  listen.  ''  Hush,  brother  !  Avhat  have 
I  to  forgive  ?  How  cold  jou  arc  !  Your  hands  are  like  ice. 
What  can  I  do  ?    There's  no  fire  in  the  house  at  this  time  of 


THE  RELIGIOUS  LIFE.  217 

night — even  in  the  kitchen  it  will  be  out  now.  But  wait,  I 
can  rub  you  with  my  hands.  See,  I'm  warm  and  strong. 
There's  a  deal  of  blood  in  me  yet.  That's  better,  isn't  it  ? 
Tingling,  eh  ?  That's  right — that's  good  !  Now  for  your  feet 
— your  feet  will  be  colder  still." 

"  No,  brother,  no.  I  ought  to  be  kissing  the  feet  of  every- 
body in  the  house  and  asking  the  prayers  of  the  community, 
and  yet  you " 

"  Tut !  what  nonsense  !  Let  me  take  oS  this  shoe.  Dear 
me,  how  it  sticks !  Why,  you've  worn  it  through  and 
through.  Look !  What  a  mercy  the  snow  was  hard !  If 
there  had  been  thaw,  now !  How  far  you  must  have 
walked ! " 

"Yes,  I've  wandered  a  long  way,  brother." 

"  You  shall  tell  me  all  about  it.  I  want  to  hear  every- 
thing— every  single  thing." 

"There's  nothing  to  tell.  I've  failed  in  my  errand — 
that's  all." 

John,  who  was  on  his  knees,  drew  back  and  looked  up, 
"  Do  you  mean,  then Have  you  not  seen  your  sister? " 

"  No,  she's  gone,  and  nobody  knows  anything  about 
her." 

"  Well,  iDerhaps  it's  for  the  best,  brother.  God's  will  be 
done,  you  know.  If  you  had  found  her — who  knows  ? — you 
might  have  been  tempted But  tell  me  everything." 

"  I  can  not  do  that,  I'm  so  weak,  and  it's  not  worth 
while." 

"  But  I  want  to  hear  all  that  happened.  See,  your  feet 
are  all  right  now — I've  rubbed  them  warm  again.  Though 
I  fast  so  much  and  look  so  thin  I've  a  deal  of  life  in  me. 
And  I've  been  pouring  it  all  into  you,  haven't  I  ?  That's  be- 
cause I  want  you  to  revive  and  be  strong  and  tell  me  every- 
thing. Hush  !  Speak  low  ;  don't  waken  anybody !  Did 
you  find  the  hospital?  " 

"Yes." 

"  Then  Nurse  Quayle  sees  nothing  of  your  sister  now ! 
That's  the  pity  of  the  life  she  is  leading,  poor  girl !  No 
friends,  no  future " 

"  It  wasn't  that,  brother." 

"  What  then  ? " 
15 


218 


THE  CHRISTIAN. 


"  The  nurse  was  not  there." 

A  silence  followed,  and  then  John  said  in  another  voice : 
"  I  suppose  she  was  on  a  holiday.  It  was  very  stupid  of  me  ; 
I  didn't  think  of  that.  Twice  a  year  a  hospital  nurse  is  en- 
titled to  a  week's  holiday,  and  no  doubt " 

"  But  she  was  gone." 

"  Gone  ?    You  mean  left  the  hospital? " 

"Yes." 

"  Well,"  in  a  husky  voice,  "  that  isn't  to  be  wondered  at 
either.  A  high-spirited  girl  finds  it  hard  to  be  bound  down 
to  rule  and  regulation.  But  the  porter — he  is  an  intelligent 
man — he  would  tell  you  where  she  had  gone  to." 

"  I  asked  him ;  he  didn't  know.  All  he  could  say  was 
that  she  left  the  hospital  on  the  morning  of  Lord  Mayor's 
Show-day." 

"  That  would  be  the  9th  of  November — the  day  we  took 
our  vows." 

There  was  another  pause  ;  the  big  dark  ej^es  were  wan- 
dering vacantly. 

"  After  all,  he  is  only  a  porter ;  you  asked  for  the  matron, 
didn't  you?" 

"  Yes ;  I  thought  she  might  know  what  had  become  of 
my  sister.  But  she  didn't.  As  for  Nurse  Quayle,  she  had 
been  dismissed  also,  and  nobody  knew  anything  about  her." 

John  had  seated  himself  at  Paul's  side  and  the  form  itself 
was  quivering. 

"  Now  that's  just  like  her,"  he  said  hoarsely.  "  That  ma- 
tron was  always  a  hard  woman.  And  to  think  that  in  that 
great  house  of  love  and  pity  nobody " 

"  I'm  forgetting  something,  brothei*." 

"What  is  it?" 

"The  porter  told  me  that  the  nurse  called  for  her  letters 
from  time  to  time.  She  had  been  there  that  night— not  half 
an  hour  before." 

"  Then  you  followed  her,  didn't  you  ?  You  asked  which 
way  she  had  gone,  and  you  hurried  after  her? " 

"  Yes  ;  but  half  an  hour  in  London  is  a  week  any^vhere 
else.  Let  anybody  cross  the  street  and  he  is  lost — more  lost 
to  sight  than  a  shij)  in  a  storm  on  the  ocean.  And  then  it 
was  New  Year's  Eve,  and  the  thoroughfares  were  crowded, 


THE  RELIGIOUS  LIFE.  219 

and  thousands  of  women  were  coming  and  going— and — 
what  could  I  do  ?  "  he  said  helplessly. 

John  answered  scornfully  :  "  What  could  you  do  ?  Do 
you  ask  nie  what  you  could  do  ?  " 

"  What  would  you  have  done  ? " 

"  I  should  have  tramped  every  street  in  London  and  looked 
into  the  face  of  every  woman  I  met  until  I  had  found  her. 
I  should  have  worn  my  shoes  to  the  welt  and  my  skin  to  the 
bone  before  I  would  have  come  crawling  home  like  a  snail 
with  my  shell  broken  over  my  head." 

"  Don't  be  hard  on  me,  brother,  least  of  all  now,  when  I 
have  come  home  like  a  snail,  as  you  say,  with  my  shell 
broken.  I  was  very  tired  and  ill  and  did  all  I  could.  If  I  had 
been  strong  like  you  and  brave-hearted  I  might  have  strug- 
gled longer.  Bid  I  did  tramp  the  streets  and  look  into  the 
women's  faces.  She  must  have  been  among  them,  if  she's 
living  the  life  you  speak  of  ;  but  God  would  not  let  me  find 
her.  Why  was  it  that  my  seai-ch  was  fruitless  ?  Perhaps 
there  was  evil  in  my  heart  at  first — I  don't  mind  telling  you 
that  now — but  I  swear  to  you  by  Him  who  died  for  us  that 
at  last  I  only  wanted  to  find  my  sister  that  I  might  save  her. 
But  I  am  such  a  helpless  creature,  and " 

John  put  his  arm  about  Paul's  shoulders. 

"  Forgive  me,  brother.  I  was  mad  to  talk  to  you  like 
that — I  who  sent  you  out  on  that  cruel  night  and  staid  at 
home  myself.     You  did  what  you  could " 

"  You  think  that— really  ? " 

"  Yes,  only  at  the  moment  it  seemed  as  if  we  had  changed 
places  somehow,  and  it  was  I  who  had  lost  a  sister  and  been 
out  to  find  her,  and  given  up  the  search  too  soon,  and  come 
home  empty  and  useless  and  broken-spirited,  and " 

Paul  was  looking  up  at  him  with  a  face  full  of  astonish- 
ment. 

"  Do  you  really  think  I  did  all  I  could  to  find  her — the 
nurse,  I  mean  ? " 

But  John  had  turned  his  own  face  away,  and  there  was 
no  answer.  Paul  tried  to  say  something,  but  he  could  not 
find  the  words.  At  last  in  a  choked  voice  he  murmured : 
"  We  must  keep  close  together,  brother  ;  we  are  in  the  same 
boat  now." 


220  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

And  feeling  for  John's  hand,  he  took  it  and  held  it,  and 
they  sat  some  minutes  with  bowed  heads,  as  if  a  ghost  were 

going  by. 

"There's  nothing  but  prayer  and  penance  and  fasting 

left  to  us,  is  there  ?  " 

Still  John  made  no  reply,  and  the  broken  creature  began 
to  comfort  him. 

"We  have  peace  here  at  all  events,  and  you  wouldn't 
think  what  temptations  come  to  you  in  the  world  when 
you've  lost  somebody,  and  there  seems  to  be  nothing  left  to 
live  for.  Shall  I  tell  you  what  I  did  ?  It  was  in  the  early 
morning  and  I  was  standing  in  a  doorway  in  Piccadilly. 
The  cabs  and  the  crowds  were  gone,  and  only  the  night- 
men  were  swilling  up  the  dirt  of  the  pavements  with  their 
hose-pipes  and  water.  'My  poor  girl  is  lost,'  I  thought. 
'  We  shall  never  see  one  another  again.  This  wicked  city 
has  ruined  her,  and  our  mother,  who  was  so  holy,  was  fond 
of  her  when  she  was  a  little  child.'  And  then  my  heart 
seemed  to  freeze  up  within  me  .  .  .  and  I  did  it.  You'll 
think  I  was  mad — I  went  to  the  police  station  and  told  them 
I  had  committed  a  crime.  Yes,  indeed,  I  accused  myself  of 
murder,  and  began  to  give  particulars.  It  was  only  when 
they  noticed  my  habit  that  I  remembered  the  Father,  and 
then  I  refused  to  answer  any  more  questions.  They  put  me 
in  a  cell,  and  that  was  where  I  silent  the  night,  and  next 
morning  I  denied  everything,  and  they  let  me  go." 

Then,  dropping  his  voice  to  a  hoarse  whisper,  he  said  : 
"That  wasn't  what  brought  me  back,  though.  It  was  the 
vow.  You  can't  think  what  a  thing  the  vow  is  until  you've 
broken  it.  It's  like  a  hot  iron  searing  your  very  soul,  and 
if  you  were  dying  and  at  the  farthest  ends  of  the  earth,  and 
you  had  to  crawl  on  your  hands  and  knees,  you  would 
come  back " 

He  would  have  said  more,  but  an  attack  of  coughing 
silenced  him,  and  when  it  was  over  there  was  a  sound  of 
some  one  moving  in  the  house. 

"  What  is  that  ? "' 

"  It  is  the  Father,"  .said  John.  "  Our  voices  have  wak- 
ened him." 

Paul  struggled  to  his  feet. 


THE   RELIGIOUS  LIFE.  221 

"  It's  only  a  life  of  peuance  and  suffering  you've  come 
back  to,  my  poor  lad." 

"  That's  nothing— nothing  at  all —  But  are  you  sure 
you  think  I  did  everything  ? '' 

"You  did  what  you  could.  Are  you  going  some- 
where ? '' 

"  Yes,  to  the  Father." 

"  God  bless  you,  my  lad  I '' 

"[And  God  bless  you  too,  brother  ! " 

Half  an  hour  later,  by  the  order  of  the  Superior,  John 
Storm,  with  the  help  of  Brother  Andrew  and  the  Father 
Minister,  carried  Brother  Paul  to  his  cell.  The  bell  had 
been  rung  for  Lauds,  and  going  up  the  stairs  they  passed 
the  brothers  coming  down  to  service.  News  of  Paul's  re- 
turn had  gone  through  the  house  like  a  cutting  wind,  and 
certain  of  the  brothers  who  had  gathered  in  groups  on  the 
landings  were  whispering  together,  as  if  the  coming  back 
had  been  a  shameful  thing  which  cast  discredit  on  all  of 
them.  It  wasn't  love  of  rule  that  had  brought  the  man 
home  again,  but  broken  health  and  the  want  of  a  bed  to  die 
upon !  Thus  they  talked  under  their  breath,  unconscious  of 
the  secret  operation  of  their  own  hearts.  In  a  monastery,  as 
elsewhere,  failure  is  the  worst  disgrace. 

John  Storm  returned  to  the  hall  with  a  firm  step  and 
eyes  full  of  resolution.  Hardly  answering  the  brothers, 
who  plied  him  with  questions,  he  pushed  through  them  with 
long  strides,  and,  taking  the  key  of  the  outer  gate  from  the 
place  in  the  alcove  where  he  had  left  it,  he  turned  toward 
the  Father's  room. 

The  day  had  dawned,  and  through  the  darkness  which 
was  lifting  in  the  little  room  he  could  see  the  Father  rising 
from  his  knees. 

"  Father ! "  he  cried  in  an  excited  voice,  and  his  words, 
like  his  breath,  came  in  gusts. 

"  What  is  it,  my  son  ? " 

"Take  this  key  back  again.  The  world  is  calling  me, 
and  I  can  not  trust  myself  at  the  door  any  longer.  Put  me 
under  the  rule  of  silence  and  solitude,  and  shut  me  up  in  a 
cell,  or  I  shall  break  my  obedience  and  run  away  as  sure  as 
heaven  is  over  us  ! " 


222  THE  CHRISTIAN. 


XIV. 

Glory  awoke  on  New  Year's  morning'  with  a  little  hard 
lump  at  her  heart,  and  thought:  "How  foolish!  Am  I  to 
give  up  all  my  cherished  dreams  because  one  man  is  a 
scoundrel  ? " 

The  struggle  might  be  bitter,  but  she  would  not  give  in. 
London  was  the  mother  of  genius.  If  she  destroyed  she 
created  also.  It  was  only  the  weak  and  the  worthless  she 
cast  away.  The  strong  she  made  stronger,  the  great  she 
made  greater.  "O  God,  give  me  the  life  I  love!"  she 
thought ;  "  give  me  a  chance  ;  only  let  me  begin — no  matter 
how,  no  matter  where  ! " 

She  remembered  her  impulse  of  the  night  before  to  fol- 
low Bi'other  Paul,  and  the  little  hard  lump  at  her  heart 
grew  bitter.  John  Storm  had  gone  from  her,  forgotten  her, 
left  her  to  take  care  of  herself.  Very  well,  so  be  it !  What 
Avas  the  use  of  thinking  ?  "I  hate  to  be  sentimental,"  she 
thought. 

If  Aggie  called  on  Sunday  night  she  would  go  with  her, 
no  matter  if  it  was  beginning  at  the  bottom.  Others  had 
begun  there,  and  what  right  had  she  to  expect  to  begin  any- 
where else  ?  For  the  future  she  would  take  the  world  on 
its  own  terms  and  force  it  to  give  way.  She  would  conquer 
this  great  cruel  London,  and  yet  remain  a  good  girl  in 
spite  of  all. 

Such  was  the  mood  in  which  she  came  down  to  break- 
fast, and  the  first  tiling  that  met  her  eyes  was  a  letter  from 
home.  At  that  her  face  burned  for  a  moment  and  her 
breath  came  in  gusts,  but  she  put  the  letter  into  her  pocket 
unopened  and  tossed  her  head  a  little  and  laughed.  "  I  hate 
to  be  so  sensitive."  she  thought,  and  then  she  began  to  tell 
Mrs.  Jupe  what  she  intended  to  do. 

"Theclu})s!"  cried  Mrs.  Jupe.  "I  thotight  you  didn't 
tj^ke  to  the  shop  because  you  fancied  yereelf  above  present 
company.     But  the  foreign  clubs  !     My  gracious  ! " 

The  hissing  of  Mrs.  Jupe's  taunting  voice  followed  her 
about  all  that  day,  and  late  at  night,  Avhen  they  were  going 
to  bed  and  the  streets  were  quiet,  and  there  Avas  only  the 


THE  RELIGIOUS  LIFE.  223 

jingle  of  a  passing'  hansom  or  a  drunken  shout  or  the 
screech  of  a  concertina,  she  could  hear  it  again  from  the 
other  side  of  the  plaster  partition,  interrupted  occasionally 
by  the  sound  of  Mr.  Jupe's  attempts  to  excuse  and  apologize 
for  her.  No  matter !  Anything  to  escape  from  the  atmos- 
phere of  that  woman's  house,  to  be  free  of  her  and  quit  of 
her  forever ! 

Toward  eight  o'clock  on  Sunday  evening  she  went  up 
to  her  bedroom  to  put  on  her  hat  and  ulster,  and  being  alone 
there,  and  waiting  for  Aggie,  she  could  not  helj)  but  open 
her  letter  from  home. 

"  Sunday  next  is  your  bii'tliday,  my  dear  one,"  wrote  the 
parson,  "  so  we  send  you  our  love  and  greetings.  This  being 
the  first  of  your  twenty-one  that  you  have  spent  from  home,  I 
will  be  thinking  of  you  all  the  day  through,  and  when  night 
comes,  and  I  smoke  a  pipe  by  the  study  fire,  I  know  I  shall  be 
leaving  the  blind  up  that  I  may  see  the  evening  star  and  re- 
member the  happy  birthdays  long  ago,  when  somebody,  who 
was  so  petted  and  spoiled,  used  to  say  she  had  just  come 
down  from  it,  having  dressed  herself  in  some  strange  and 
grand  disguises,  and  told  us  she  was  Phonodoree  the  fairy. 
You  will  be  better  employed  than  that,  Glory,  and  as  long 
as  my  dear  one  is  well  and  happy  and  prosperous  in  the 

great  city  where  she  so  loves  to  be " 

The  candle  was  shaking  in  Glory's  hands,  and  the  little 
half-lit  bedroom  seemed  to  be  blinking  in  and  out. 

Aunt  Anna  had  added  a  postscript :  "  Glad  to  hear  you 
are  enjoying  yourself  in  London,  but  rather  alarmed  at  your 
frequent  mention  of  theatres.  Take  care  you  don't  go  too 
often,  child,  and  mind  you  send  us  the  name  of  the  vicar  of 
the  parish  you  are  living  in,  for  I  certainly  think  grand- 
father ought  to  write  to  him." 

To  this  again  there  was  a  footnote  by  Aunt  Rachel : 
"  You  say  nothing  of  Mr.  Drake  nowadays.  Is  he  one  of 
Mrs.  Jupe's  visitors  ?  .  And  is  it  he  who  takes  you  to 
the  theatre  ? " 

Then  there  was  a  New  Year's  card  enclosed,  having  a 
picture  of  an  Eastern  shepherd  at  the  head  of  his  flock  of 
sheep  and  bearing  the  inscription,  "Follow  in  his  foot- 
steps." 


224  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

But  the  hissing  sound  of  Mrs.  Jupe's  voice  came  up  from 
below,  and  Glory's  tears  were  dried  in  an  instant.  On  going 
downstairs,  she  found  Aggie  in  her  mock  sealskin  and  big 
black  feathers  sitting  in  the  parlour  at  the  back  of  the  shop, 
and  Mrs.  Jupe  talking  to  her  in  whispers,  with  an  appear- 
ance of  knowledge  and  familiarity.  She  caught  the  con- 
fused look  of  the  one  and  the  stealthy  glances  of  the  other, 
and  the  hard  lump  at  her  heart  grew  harder. 

"  Come  on,"  said  Glory,  and  a  few  minutes  afterward  the 
girls  were  walking  toward  Soho.  The  little  chapels  in  the 
quieter  streets  wei-e  dropping  out  their  driblets  of  people  and 
the  lights  in  the  church  windows  were  being  extinguished 
one  by  one.  Aggie  had  recovered  her  composure,  and  was 
talking  of  Charlie  as  she  skipped  along  with  a  rapid  step, 
swinging  her  stage-box  by  her  side.  Charlie  was  certain  to 
be  at  one  of  the  clubs,  and  he  would  be  sure  to  see  them 
home.  He  wasn't  out  of  his  time  yet,  and  that  was  why  her 
father  wouldn't  allow  him  about.  But  he  was  in  an  office 
at  a  foundry,  and  his  people  lived  in  a  house,  and  perhaps 
one  of  these  days 

"  Did  you  say  that  some  of  the  people  who  are  on  the 
3tage  now  began  at  the  clubs  ?  "  said  Glory. 

"  Plenty,  my  dear.  There's  Betty  Bellman  for  one.  She 
was  at  a  club  in  Old  Compton  Street  when  Mr.  Sefton  found 
her  out." 

Aggie  had  to  "  work  a  turn  "  at  each  of  three  clubs  that 
night,  and  the  girls  were  now  at  the  door  of  the  first  of 
them.  It  stood  at  the  corner  of  a  reputable  square,  and  was 
like  any  ordinary  house  on  the  outside.  But  people  were 
coming  and  going  constantly,  and  the  doorkeeper  was  kept 
opening  and  closing  the  dooi'.  In  the  middle  of  the  hall  a 
clerk  stood  at  a  desk,  having  a  great  book  in  front  of  him, 
and  making  a  show  of  challenging  everybody  as  he  entei-ed. 
He  recognised  Aggie  as  an  artiste,  but  passed  Glory  also  on 
the  payment  of  twopence  and  the  signing  of  her  name  in 
the  book. 

The  dining-room  of  the  house  had  been  converted  into 
a  bar,  Avith  counter  and  stillage,  and  after  the  girls  had 
crushed  tlirough  the  crowds  that  stood  there  they  came  into 
a  large  and  sliabby  chamber,  wljich  had  the  appearance  of 


THE  RELIGIOUS  LIFE.  225 

having  been  built  over  the  space  wliich  had  once  been  the 
backyard.  This  room  had  neither  windows  nor  skylights ; 
its  walls  were  decorated  with  portraits  of  Garibaldi  and 
Victor  Emanuel  in  faded  colours,  and  there  was  a  stage  and 
proscenium  at  its  farther  end. 

It  was  an  Italian  club  that  met  there  on  Sunday  nights, 
and  some  two  or  three  hundred  hairdressers  and  restaurant- 
keepers  of  swarthy  complexion  sat  in  groups  at  little  round 
tables  with  their  wives  and  sweethearts  (chiefly  English 
women),  smoking  and  drinking  and  laughing  at  the  per- 
formance on  the  stage. 

Aggie  went  down  to  her  dressing-room  under  the  floor, 
and  Glory  sat  at  a  table  with  a  yellow-haired  lady  and  a 
dark-eyed  man.  A  negro  without  the  burnt  cork  was  twang- 
ing a  banjo  and  cracking  the  jokes  of  the  corner-man. 

"  That's  my  style — a  merry  touch-and-go,"  said  the  lady. 
And  then  glancing  at  Glory,  "  Singing  to-night,  my  dear  ? " 

Glory  shook  her  head. 

"  Thort  you  might  be  a  pro  p'rhaps.  Use  ter  be  myself 
when  I  was  in  the  bally  at  the  Lane.  Married  now,  my 
dear ;  but  I  likes  to  come  of  a  Sunday  night  when  the  kids 
is  got  to  bed." 

Then  Aggie  danced  a  skirt  dance,  and  there  were  shouts 
of  applause  for  her,  and  she  came  back  and  danced  again. 
When  she  reappeared  in  jacket  and  hat,  and  with  her  stage- 
box  in  her  hand,  the  girls  crushed  their  way  out.  Going 
through  the  bar  they  were  invited  to  drink  by  several  of  the 
men  who  were  standing  there,  but  they  got  into  the  streets 
at  last. 

"They're  rather  messy,  those  bars,"  said  Aggie;  "but 
managers  like  you  to  come  round  and  tyke  something  after 
you've  done  your  turn — if  it's  only  a  cup  of  cawfy." 

"  Do  you  like  this  life  ? "  said  Glory,  taking  a  long 
breath. 

"  Yes,  awfully  !  "  said  Aggie. 

Their  next  visit  was  to  a  Swiss  club,  which  did  not  great- 
ly difi^er  from  the  Italian  one,  except  that  the  hall  was  more 
shabby,  and  that  the  audience  consisted  of  French  and  Swiss 
waiters  and  skittish  young  English  milliners.  The  girls  had 
taken  their  hats  and  cloaks  off  and  sat  dressed  like  dolls  in 


226  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

white  muslin  with  long  streamers  of  bright  ribbon.  A  gen- 
tleman sang  the  "  Postman's  Knock,"  with  the  character  ac- 
companiment of  a  pot  hat  and  a  black-edged  envelope,  a 
lady  sang  "  Maud  "  in  silk  tights  and  a  cloak,  Aggie  danced 
her  skirt°dance,  and  then  the  floor  was  cleared  for  a  ball. 

"  They're  going  to  dance  the  Swiss  dance,"  said  Aggie, 
"  and  the  M.  C.  wants  me  to  tyke  a  place ;  but  I  hate  these 
fellows  to  be  hugging  me.    Will  you  be  my  partner,  dear  ? " 

"  Well— just  for  a  minute  or  two,"  said  Glory,  with  nerv- 
ous gaiety.     And  then  the  dance  began. 

It  proved  to  be  a  musical  version  of  odd  man  out,  and 
Glory  soon  found  herself  being  snapped  up  by  other  part- 
ners and  addressed  familiarly  by  the  waiters  and  their 
women.  She  could  feel  the  moisture  of  their  hands  and 
smell  the  oil  of  their  hair,  and  a  feeling  like  a  spasm  of 
physical  pain  came  over  her. 

'••Let  us  go,"  she  whispered. 

"Yes,  it's  getting  lyte,"  said  Aggie,  and  they  pressed 
through  the  crowded  bar  and  out  into  the  street. 

The  twanging  of  the  fiddles,  the  thud  of  the  dancing,  and 
the  peals  of  coarse  laughter  followed  them  from  the  stifling 
atmosphere  within,  and  Glory  felt  sick  and  faint. 

"  Do  you  say  that  managers  of  good  places  call  at  these 
clubs  sometimes  ? " 

"  Often,"  said  Aggie,  and  she  hummed  a  music-hall  tune 
as  she  skipped  and  tripped  along. 

The  streets,  which  had  been  dark  and  quiet  when  they 
arrived  in  Soho,  were  now  ablaze  with  lights  in  every  win- 
dow, and  noisy  with  people  on  every  pavement.  The  last 
club  they  had  to  visit  was  a  German  one,  and  as  they  came 
near  it  they  saw  that  a  man  was  standing  at  the  door  bare- 
headed and  looking  out  for  somebody. 

"  It's  Charlie,"  said  Aggie  with  a  little  jump  of  joy.  But 
when  they  came  up  to  him  a  scowl  darkened  his  dark  face, 
and  he  said  : 

"  Lyte  as  usyal  !  Two  of  the  bloomin'  turns  not  come, 
and  me  looking  up  and  dahn  the  bloomin'  street  for  you 
every  minute  and  more  ! " 

The  girl's  eyes  blinked  as  if  he  had  struck  hei",  but  she 
only  tossed  her  head  and  stiffened  her  under  lip,  and  said  : 


THE  RELIGIOUS  LIFE.  227 

"Jawing  again,  are  ye  ?  I'd  chuck  it  for  once,  Cliarlie,  if  it 
was  only  for  sake  of  company." 

With  that  slie  disappeared  to  the  dressing-room,  and 
Charlie  took  charge  of  Glory,  pushed  a  way  for  her  through 
the  refreshment  room,  offered  her  a  "  glaws  of  somethink," 
and  with  an  obvious  pride  of  possession  introduced  her  to 
admiring  acquaintances  as  "  a  friend  o'  mine."  "  Like  yer 
style,  Charlie,"  said  one  of  them.  "  Oh,  yus  !  Dare  say  ! " 
said  Charlie. 

The  proscenium  Avas  surmounted  by  the  German  and 
English  flags  intertwined,  the  walls  were  adorned  with  oleo- 
graph portraits  of  the  Kaiser,  his  father  and  grandfather, 
Bismarck  and  Von  Moltke,  and  the  audience  consisted 
largely  of  lively  young  German  Jews  and  Jewesses  in 
evening  dress,  some  Polish  Jews,  and  a  sprinkling  of  other 
foreigners. 

During  Aggie's  turn  Glory  was  conscious  that  two  stran- 
gers out  of  another  world  altogether  had  entered  the  club 
and  were  standing  at  the  back. 

"'Toffs,"  said  Charlie,  looking  at  them  over  her  shoulder, 
and  then,  answering  to  himself  the  meaning  of  their  looks, 
"  No,  my  luds  !    'Tain't  the  first  we've  seen  of  sech ! " 

Then  Aggie  came  up  with  an  oily  person  in  a  flowered 
waistcoat  and  said,  "  This  is  my  friend,  guv'nor,  and  she 
wouldn't  mind  doing  a  turn  if  you  asked  her." 

"  If  de  miss  vill  oblige,"  began  the  oily  one,  and  then 
the  blood  rushed  to  Glory's  face,  and  before  she  knew  what 
else  had  happened,  her  hat  and  ulster  were  in  Aggie's  hands 
and  slie  was  walking  up  the  steps  to  the  stage. 

There  was  some  applause  when  she  went  on,  but  she  was 
in  a  dazed  condition  and  it  all  seemed  to  be  taking  place  a 
hundred  miles  away.  She  heard  her  own  voice  saying, 
"Ladies  and  gentlemen,  with  your  kind  permission  I  will 

endeavour  to  give  you  an  imitation "  and  something 

more.  Down  to  that  moment  her  breath  had  been  coming 
and  going  in  hot  gasps,  and  she  had  felt  a  dryness  in  her 
thi'oat ;  but  every  symptom  of  nervousness  suddenly  disap- 
peared, and  she  threw  up  her  head  like  a  charger  in  battle. 

Then  she  sang.  It  was  only  a  common  street  song,  and 
everybody  had  heard  it  a  thousand  times.     She  sang  "  And 


228 


THE  CHRISTIAN. 


lier  golden  hair  was  hanging  down  her  back"  after  the 
manner  of  a  line  of  factory  girls  going  home  from  work  at 
night.  Ai'm-in-arni,  decked  in  their  Vandyke  hats,  slashed 
with  red  ribbons  and  crowned  with  ostrich  feathers,  with 
their  free  step,  their  shrill  voices — they  were  there  before 
everybody's  eyes,  everybody  could  see  them,  everybody 
could  recognise  them,  and  before  the  end  of  the  first  verse 
there  were  shouts  and  squeals  of  laughter. 

Glor^^  felt  dizzy  yet  self-possessed  ;  she  gave  a  little  audi- 
ble laugh  while  she  stood  bowing  between  the  verses.  In  a 
few  minutes  the  song  was  finished  and  the  people  were 
stamping,  whistling,  uttering  screeching  cat-calls,  and  shout- 
ing ''  Bray vo  !  "  But  Glory  was  sitting  at  the  foot  of  the 
stage  by  this  time  with  a  face  contorted  as  in  physical  pain. 
After  the  first  thrill  of  success  the  shame  of  it  all  came  over 
her  and  she  saw  how  low  she  had  fallen,  and  felt  horrified 
and  afraid.  The  clamour,  the  clapping  of  hands,  the  vulgar 
faces,  the  vulgar  laughter,  the  vulgar  song,  Sunday  night, 
her  own  birthday  !  It  all  passed  before  her  like  the  inci- 
dents in  some  nightmare,  and  at  the  back  of  it  came  other 
memories— Gleufaba,  the  sweet  and  simple  household,  the 
old  parson  smoking  by  the  study  fire  and  looking  up  at  the 
evening  star,  and  then  John  Storm  and  the  church  chimes 
at  Bishopsgate  !  One  moment  she  sat  there  with  her  burn- 
ing face,  staring  helplessly  before  her,  while  people  ci'owded 
round  to  shake  hands  with  her  and  cried  into  her  ear^i 
above  the  deafening  tumult,  ''You'll  have  to  tyke  another 
turn,  dear  "  ;  and  then  she  burst  into  passionate  weeping. 

"  Stand  avay  !  De  lady's  not  fit  to  sing  again,"  said 
some  one,  and  she  opened  her  eyes. 

It  was  one  of  the  two  gentlemen  who  had  been  standing 
at  the  back. 

"  Ach  Gott !     Is  it  you  ?    Don't  you  know  me,  nurse  ?  " 

It  was  Mr.  Koonig,  the  organist. 

"  My  gracious  !  Yot  ai'e  you  doing  here,  my  child  ? 
Two  monts  ago  I  haf  ask  for  you  at  de  hospital,  and  haf 
write  to  de  matron,  but  you  vere  gone.  Since  den  I  haf 
look  for  you  all  over  London.     Vhere  do  you  lif  ?  " 

Glory  told  him,  and  he  wrote  down  the  address. 

"  Ugh  !    A  genius,  and  lif  in  a  tobacco  shop !    My  vife 


THE  RELIGIOUS  LIFE.  229 

vill  call  on  you  and  fetch  you  avay.  She  is  a  goot  woman, 
and  vhatever  she  tell  you  to  do  you  must  do  it ;  but  not 
tQUsical  and  clever  same  like  as  you.  Bless  mine  soul  ! 
Singing  in  a  Sunday  club  !  Do  you  know,  my  child,  you 
haf  a  voice,  and  talents,  great  talents  !  Vants  training — yes. 
But  vhat  vould  you  haf  ?  Here  a,m  I,  Carl  Koenig  !  I 
speak  ver'  bad  de  Englisch,  but  I  know  ver'  goot  to  teach 
music.  I  vill  teach  you  same  like  I  teach  oder  ladies  who 
pay  me  many  dollare.     Do  you  know  vhat  I  am  ? " 

Yes,  she  knew  what  he  was — he  was  the  organist  at  All 
Saints,  Belgravia. 

"  Pooh  !  I  am  a  composer  as  veil.  I  write  songs,  and  all 
your  countrymen  and  countryvomen  sing  dem.  I  haf  a 
choral  company,  too,  and  it  is  for  dat  I  vant  you.  I  go  to 
de  first  houses  in  de  land,  de  lords,  de  ministers,  de  princes. 
You  shall  come  vith  me.  Your  voice  is  soprano — no,  mezzo- 
soprano — and  it  vill  grow.  I  vill  pitch  it,  and  vhen  it  is 
ready  I  vill  bring  you  out.  But  now  get  away  from  dis 
place  and  naivare  come  back,  or  I  vill  be  more  angry  as 
before." 

Then  Glory  rose,  and  he  led  her  to  the  door.  Her  heart 
felt  big  and  her  eyes  were  glistening.  Aggie  was  in  the 
refi'eshment-room.  Having  finished  for  the  night,  the  girl 
had  resumed  her  outdoor  costume  without  removing  her 
make-up,  and  was  laughing  merrily  among  a  group  of  men 
and  playing  them  off  against  Charlie,  who  was  still  in  the 
sulks  and  drinking  at  the  bar.  When  Glory  appeared,  Ag- 
gie fidgeted  with  her  glove  and  said,  "  Aren't  you  going  to 
see  us  home,  Charlie  ?  " 

"No,"  said  Charlie. 

"  Where  are  you  going  to  ?  " 

"  Nowhere  as  you  can  come." 

Aggie's  eyes  watered,  and  she  wrenched  a  button  off,  but 
she  only  laughed  and  answered,  "Don't  think  as  we're 
throwing  ourselves  at  your  head,  my  man !  We  only 
wanted  to  knoiv.     Ta-ta  !  " 

It  was  now  midnight,  and  the  streets  were  thin  of  people, 
but  sounds  of  music  and  dancing  came  from  nearly  every 
open  window  and  door. 

Aggie  was  crving.     "  That's  the  worst  of  the  clubs,"  she 


230  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

said,  "they  lead  'em  to  the  gambling  hells.     And  then  a 
youug  man  always  knows  when  he  can  tyke  advantage." 

As  they  returned  past  the  Swiss  club  somebody  who  was 
being  throAvn  out  into  the  street  was  shouting  in  a  gurgling 
voice,  "  Let  go  o'  my  throat  or  I'll  corpse  ye ! "  And 
farther  on  two  or  three  girls  in  their  teens,  with  their  arms 
about  the  necks  of  twice  as  many  men,  were  reeling  along 
the  pavement  and  singing  in  a  tuneless  wail. 


XV. 

Toward  the  middle  of  Lent  the  Society  of  the  Holy 
Gethsemane  was  visited  by  its  ecclesiastical  Visitor.  This 
was  the  Bishop  of  the  diocese,  a  liberal-minded  man  and  not 
a  very  rigid  ecclesiastic,  abrupt,  brusque,  businesslike,  and  a 
good  administrator.  When  the  brothers  had  gathered  in 
the  community  room,  he  took  from  the  Superior  the  leathern- 
bound  volume  containing  the  rule  of  the  Brotherhood  and 
read  aloud  the  text  of  it. 

"And  now,  gentlemen,"  he  said,  "whether  I  approve  of 
your  rule  or  not  is  a  matter  with  which  we  have  no  concern 
at  present.  My  sole  duty  is  to  see  that  it  is  lawfully  admin- 
istered. Are  you  satisfied  with  the  administration  of  it  and 
willing  to  remain  under  its  control  ? " 

There  was  only  one  response  from  the  brothers— they 
were  entirely  satisfied. 

The  Bishop  rose  with  a  smile  and  bowed  to  the  brothers, 
and  they  began  to  leave  the  room. 

"  There  are  two  of  my  people  whom  you  have  not  yet 
seen,"  said  the  Father. 

"Where  are  they?" 

"  In  their  cells." 

"  Why  in  their  cells  ? " 

"  One  of  them  is  ill ;  the  other  is  under  the  rule  of  silence 
and  solitude." 

"  Let  us  visit  them,"  .said  the  Bishop,  and  they  began  to 
ascend  the  stairs. 

"  I  may  not  agree  with  your  theory  of  the  religious  life, 
Fatlier,  but  wlusn  I  .sf'(>  your  people  giving  up  tlie  world  and 


THE  RELIGIOUS  LIFE.  231 

its  comforts,  its  joys  and  possessions,  its  ties  of  blood  and 
affection " 

They  had  reached  the  topmost  story,  and  the  Father  had 
paused  to  recover  breath.  "  This  cell  to  the  right,"  said  he, 
"  is  occupied  by  a  lay  brother  who  was  tempted  by  the  Evil 
One  to  a  grievous  act  of  disobedience,  and  the  wrath  of  God 
has  fallen  on  him.  But  Satan  has  overreached  himself  for 
once,  and  by  that  very  act  grace  has  triumphed.  Not  a 
member  of  our  community  rejoices  more  in  the  blessed 
sacrament,  and  when  I  place  the  body  of  our  Lord " 

"  May  we  go  in  to  him  ?  " 

"  Certainly ;  he  is  dying  of  lung  disease,  but  you  shall 
see  with  what  patience  he  possesses  his  soul." 

Brother  Paul  was  sitting  before  a  small  fire  in  an  arm- 
chair padded  with  pillows,  holding  in  his  dried-up  hands  a 
heavy  crucifix  which  was  suspended  from  his  neck. 

"  How  lightsome  and  cosy  we  are  up  here ! "  said  the 
Bishop.  "  A  long  way  up,  certainly,  but  no  doubt  you  get 
everything  you  require." 

"Everything,"  said  Paul. 

"  I  dare  say  the  brothers  are  very  good  to  you — they 
usually  are  so  to  the  weak  and  ailing  in  a  monastery." 

"  Too  good,  my  lord." 

"  Of  course  you  see  a  doctor  occasionally  ? " 

"  Three  times  a  week,  and  if  he  would  only  let  me  escape 
from  an  evil  and  troublesome  world " 

"  Hush  !  It's  not  right  to  talk  like  that,  my  son.  What- 
ever hapj)ens,  it  is  our  duty  to  live,  you  know." 

"  I've  lost  all  there  was  to  live  for,  and  besides " 

"  Then  there  is  nothing  you  wish  for  ?  "  said  the  Bishop. 

"Nothing  but  death,"  said  Paul,  and  lifting  the  crucifix 
he  carried  it  to  his  lips. 

"  Thank  God  we  are  born  to  die  ! "  said  the  Bishop,  and 
they  stepped  back  to  the  corridor  and  closed  the  door. 

"  This  next  cell,"  said  the  Father,  "  is  occupied  by  such  a 
one  as  you  were  thinking  of — one  who  was  born  to  possess 
the  world  and  to  achieve  its  sounding  triumphs,  but " 

"  Has  he  given  it  up  entirely  ? " 

"  Entirely." 

"  Is  he  young  ? " 


232  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

"  Quite  young,  and  he  has  left  the  world,  not  as  Augus- 
tine did,  after  learning  by  bitter  experience  the  deceitful- 
ness  of  sin " 

"  Then  why  is  he  here  ? " 

"He  can  not  trust  himself  yet.  He  feels  the  inward 
strivings  and  struggles  of  our  rebellious  nature  and " 

"  Then  his  solitude  and  silence  are  voluntary  ?  " 

"  Now  they  are.  See,"'  said  the  Father,  and  stooping  to 
the  floor  he  picked  up  a  key  that  lay  at  his  feet. 

"  What  does  that  mean  ?  " 

"He  locks  himself  in   and   pushes  the  key  under  the 

door." 

When  they  entered  the  cell  John  Storm  was  standing  by 
the  window  in  a  stream  of  morning  sunlight,  looking  out 
on  the  world  below  with  fixed  and  yearning  eyes. 

"  This  is  our  Visitor,"  said  the  Father.  "  The  rule  of 
silence  is  relaxed  in  his  case." 

"  Have  I  not  seen  you  before  ?  "  said  the  Bishop. 

"  I  think  not,  Father,"  said  John. 

"  What  is  your  name,  and  where  did  you  live  before  you 
came  here  ? " 

John  told  him. 

"  Then  I  have  both  seen  and  heard  you.  But  I  perceive 
that  the  world  has  gone  on  a  little  since  you  left  it — your 
canon  is  an  archdeacon  now,  and  one  of  the  chaplains  to 
the  Queen  as  well.  How  long  have  you  been  in  the  Brother- 
hood ? " 

"  Since  the  14th  of  August." 

"  And  how  long  have  you  kept  your  cell  ? " 

"  Since  the  octave  of  Epiphany." 

"  But  this  is  Lent — rather  a  long  penance,  Father." 

"  I  have  often  urged  our  dear  brother "  began  the 

Father. 

"  You  caiTj'  your  fastings  and  prayers  too  far,  Mr.  Storm," 
said  the  Bishop.  He  was  picking  up  one  by  one  some  black- 
letter  books  that  were  lying  on  the  table  and  on  the  bed. 
"  I  know  that  divines  in  all  ages  tell  us  that  the  body  is 
evil,  and  that  its  desires  and  appetites  nuist  be  eradicated. 
But  they  also  teach  us  that  the  perfect  Christian  character 
is  the  blending  of  the  two  lives,  the  life  of  Nature  and  the 


THE  RELIGIOUS  LIFE.  233 

life  of  grace.  Don't  despise  your  liumanity,  my  son.  Your 
Master  did  not  despise  it.  He  came  down  from  heaven  that 
he  might  Hve  and  work  among  the  sinful  brotherhood  of 
nian.  And  don't  pray  for  death,  or  fast  as  if  you  wished 
for  it.  You  would  have  no  right  to  do  that  even  if  you 
were  like  your  poor  neighbour  next  door,  whom  Death 
smiles  on  and  beckons  to  repose.  But  you  are  young  and 
you  are  strong.  Wlio  knows  what  good  work  your  heavenly 
Father  holds  in  store  for  you  yet  ? " 

John  had  returned  to  the  window  and  was  looking  out 
with  vacant  eyes. 

"  But  all  this  is  beside  my  present  business,"  said  tlie 
Bishop.     "  There  is  nothing  you  wish  to  complain  of  ?  " 

"  Nothing  whatever." 

"  You  are  content  to  live  in  this  house,  under  tlie  laws 
and  statutes  of  this  society  and  in  voluntary  obedience  to  its 
Superior  ? " 

"  Yes." 

"  That  is  enough." 

The  Bishop  was  leaving  the  cell,  when  his  eye  was  ar- 
rested by  some  writing  in  pencil  on  the  wall.  It  ran,  "  9th 
of  November — Lord  Mayor's  Day " ;  and  under  it  were 
short  lines  such  as  a  prisoner  makes  when  he  keeps  a  reck- 
oning. 

"  What  is  the  meaning  of  this  date  ? "  said  the  Bishop. 

John  was  silent,  but  the  Father  answered  with  a  smile : 
"  That  is  the  date  of  his  vow,  my  lord.  It  is  part  of  the  dis- 
cipline of  his  life  of  grace  to  keep  count  of  the  days  of  his 
novitiate,  so  eager  is  he  for  the  time  when  he  may  dedicate 
his  whole  life  to  God." 

Back  at  the  head  of  the  stairs  the  Father  paused  again 
and  said,  "  Listen  !  " 

There  was  the  sound  as  of  a  trembling  hand  turning  the 
key  in  the  lock  of  the  door  they  had  shut  beliind  them, 
and  at  the  next  moment  the  key  itself  came  out  of  the  aper- 
ture under  it. 

When  the  door  closed  on  the  Bishop  and  John  Storm 
was  alone  in  his  cell,  one  idea  was  left  with  him — the  idea 
of  work.  He  had  tried  everything  else,  and  everything  had 
failed. 

16 


THE   CHRISTIAN. 

il-  hid  tr  ed  solitude.  On  asking  to  be  shut  up  in  a  cell, 
1:.:  hud  said  t( .  himself  :  "  The  thought  of  Glory  is  a  tempta- 
ti'.u  of  my  unquickened  and  unspiritual  nature.  It  has 
]-.v^<l  -  Ut rayed  me  into  an  act  of  cowardice  and  inhu- 
iTiu  it  will  drive  me  out  into  the  world  and  fling 
11, t  iM<  k  ag-ain,  as  it  drove  out  and  flung  back  Brother  Paul." 
Bat  the  result  of  solitude  was  specious  and  deceitful.  As 
pictures  Si-em  to  float  before  the  eyes  after  the  eyelids  are 
closed,  so  his  past  life,  now  that  it  was  over,  seemed  to  rise 
U;i'l)efore.  him  with  awful  distinctness.  Sitting  alone  in  his 
<1I,  every  event  of  his  life  with  Glory  passed  before  him  in 
!i''  iew,  and  liarassed  him  with  pitiless  condemnation.  Why 
1  :.d  he  failed  to  realize  the  essential  difference  of  tempera- 
);;ent  I. 'tween  himself  and  that  joyous  creature  ?  Why  had 
he  hesitated  to  gratify  her  natural  and  innocent  love  of 
mere  life  i  AVhy  had  he  done  this  ?  Why  had  he  not  done 
:]\:<t  ?  If  Glory  were  lost,  if  the  wicked  and  merciless  world 
;  '  ;  tfiivetl  her,  the  fault  was  his,  and  God  would  surely 
iiija.  Thus  did  solitude  enervate  his  soul  by  fright- 
'.  •  '.ig  It,  and  the  temptation  he  had  hoped  to  vanqui-sh  be- 
L.uve  tjj^o  more  strong  and  tyrannical. 

He  had  tried  i*eading.  The  Fathers  told  him  that  God 
all-  'wed  asceiics  to  keep  the  keys  of  their  nature  in  their  own 
har.ds ;  tliat  they  had  only  to  think  of  woman  as  more  bitter 
than  death,  and  of  her  beauty  as  a  cause  of  perdition,  and 
that  if  any  \\  Oman's  face  tormented  them  they  were  to  pic- 
ture it  t«i  the  eye  of  the  mind  as  old  and  wrinkled,  defaced 
by  disease,  and  even  the  prey  of  the  worm.  He  tried  to 
thinjr  ol  Gltny  as  the  Fathers  directed,  but  when  darkness 
i*V  and  1k^  ];iy  on  his  bed,  with  the  first  dream  of  the  night 
*  li     >  '  >(.:wers  of  Nature  that  had  no  mind  to  surrender 

,s  .ijil  liiv.  11  (he  pitiful  bulwarks  of  religion,  and  Glory  was 
:iUng  upiHx  him  in  her  youth,  her  beauty,  her  sweetness, 
r  huni'.Hij-  and  all  the  grace  of  her  countless  gifts. 
1 U:  bad  1  ried  fasting.    Three  times  a  day  Brother  Andrew 
I  iiiiu  his  food,  and  twice  a  day,  when  the  lay  brother 
urn.  he  opened  the  window  and  spread  the  food  on 
'"rtlie  birds  to  take  it.     But  the  results  of  fasting 
•   i'lv.erse  of  his  expectations.    At  one  moment  he  was 
jv  -trong  emotions,  at  tlie  next  moment  he  was  in 


THE  RELIGIOUS  LIFE.  235 

collapse.  Visions  began  to  pass  before  liim.  His  father's  face 
tormented  him  constantly,  and  sometimes  he  was  conscious 
of  the  face  of  his  mother,  though  he  had  never  known  her. 
But  above  all  and  through  all  there  came  the  face  of  Glory. 
Fasting  had  only  extended  his  dreams  about  her.  He  was 
dreaming  both  by  day  and  by  night  now,  and  Glory  was 
with  him  always. 

He  had  tried  prayer.  Hitherto  he  had  said  his  Offices 
regularly,  but  now  he  would  say  special  prayers  as  well. 
To  get  the  victory  over  his  lawless  and  rebellious  nature  he 
would  turn  his  eyes  to  the  mother  of  the  Lord.  But  when 
he  tried  to  fix  his  mind  on  Mary  there  was  nothing  to  answer 
to  it.  All  was  shadowy  and  impalpable.  There  was  only  a 
vague,  empty  cloud  before  his  eyes,  until  suddenly  a  lumi- 
nous face  glided  into  the  vacant  place,  and  it  was  full  of 
tenderness,  of  sweetness,  of  charm,  of  pity  and  womanly 
love — but  it  was  the  face  of  Glory. 

Despair  laid  hold  of  him.  His  attempts  to  overcome  Na- 
ture were  clearly  rejected  by  the  Almighty.  Winter  passed 
with  its  foggy  days.  The  Father  wished  him  to  return  to 
the  ordinary  life  of  the  community,  yet  he  begged  to  be 
allowed  to  remain. 

But  the  spring  came  and  diffused  its  joy  throughout  all 
Nature.  He  listened  to  the  leaves,  he  watched  the  birds 
threading  their  way  in  the  clear  aii",  he  caught  glimpses  of 
the  yellow  flowers,  and  strained  his  eyes  for  the  green  coun- 
try beyond.  The  young  birds  began  to  take  wing,  and  one 
little  sparrow  came  hopping  into  his  room  as  often  as  he 
opened  his  window  in  the  morning  and  played  about  his 
feet  like  a  mouse,  and  then  was  gone  to  the  mother  bird  that 
called  to  it  from  the  tree. 

Little  by  little  hope  grew  to  impatience,  and  impatience 
rose  to  fever  heat ;  but  he  remembered  his  vow,  and,  to  put 
himself  out  of  temptation,  he  locked  the  door  of  his  cell  and 
pushed  the  key  through  the  aperture  under  it.  But  he  could 
not  lock  the  door  of  his  soul,  and  his  old  trouble  came  up 
again  with  the  throb  of  a  stronger  and  fresher  life.  Every 
morning  when  he  awoke  he  thought  of  Glory.  Where  was 
she  now  ?  What  had  become  of  her  by  this  time  ?  He  wrote 
on  the  wall  the  date  of  her  disappearance  from  the  hospital 


23G  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

—"9th  of  November;  Lord  Mayor's  Day" — and  tried  to 
keep  pace  in  his  mind  witli  the  chances  of  her  fate.  "  I  am 
guilty  of  a  folly,"  he  thought.  The  pride  of  his  reason  re- 
volted against  what  he  was  doing.  Nevertheless,  he  knew 
full  well  it  would  be  the  same  to-morrow,  and  the  next  day, 
and  the  next  year,  for  his  human  passions  would  not  yield, 
and  his  vow  still  clutched  hi7n  as  with  fangs. 

He  was  standing  one  morning  by  tlie  window  looking 
through  an  opening  between  high  buildings  to  the  river, 
with  its  hay  barges  gliding  down  the  glistening  water-way, 
and  its  little  steamers  with  their  spirals  of  smoke  ascending, 
when  everything  in  the  world  began  in  a  moment  to  bear 
another  moral  interpretation.  The  lesson  of  life  was  work. 
Man  could  not  exist  without  it.  If  he  departed  from  that 
condition,  no  matter  how  much  he  fasted  and  meditated 
and  prayed,  he  was  useless  and  miserable  and  depraved. 

Then  the  lock  turned  in  the  door  of  his  cell  and  the 
Father  and  the  Bishop  entered.  When  they  were  gone  he 
felt  suffocated  by  their  praises  of  his  piety,  and  asked  him- 
self, "What  am  I  doing  here?"  He  was  a  hypocrite.  Ten 
thousand  other  men  whom  the  Church  called  saints  had 
been  hj'pocrites  before  him,  and  as  they  paced  their  cloisters 
they  had  asked  themselves  the  same  question.  But  tlie 
mighty  hand  of  the  Church  was  over  him  still,  and  with 
trembling  fingers  he  turned  the  key  again  and  pushed  it 
under  the  door.  Then  he  knew  that  he  was  a  coward  also, 
and  that  religion  had  deprived  him  of  his  will,  of  his  man- 
hood, and  enervated  his  soul  itself. 

Brother  Paul  was  moving  about  in  the  adjoining  cell. 
The  lay  brother  had  become  very  weak  ;  his  step  was  slow, 
his  feet  dragged  along  the  floor;  his  breath  was  audible 
and  sometimes  his  cough  was  long  and  raucous.  Jobn  had 
heard  th(>se  sounds  every  day  and  had  tried  not  to  listen, 
but  now  he  strained  his  ears  to  hear.  A  new  thovight  had 
come  to  him  :  lie  would  ask  to  be  allowed  to  nurse  Brother 
Paul ;  that  sliould  be  liis  work,  for  work  alone  could  save 
him. 

Next  morning  he  leaped  up  from  sleep  at  the  first  syl- 
lable of  "  Benedicamus  Domino,"  and  cried,  "  Father  ! "  But 
when   tbe   door  opened    in   answer   to  his  call   it  was  the 


THE  RBLIGIOUS  LIFE.  237 

Father  Minister  who  entered.  The  Superior  had  gone  to 
give  a  Retreat  to  a  sisterhood  in  York,  and  would  be  ab- 
sent until  the  end  of  Lent.  John  looked  at  the  hard  face 
of  the  deputy,  the  very  mirror  of  its  closed  and  frozen  soul, 
and  he  could  say  nothing. 

"  Is  it  anything  that  I  can  do  for  you  ?"  said  the  Father 
Minister. 

"  No*— that  is  to  say — no,  no,"  said  John. 

When  he  opened  his  window  that  day  he  could  hear 
the  Lenten  services  in  the  church.  The  prayers,  the  re- 
sponses, the  psalms,  and  the  hymns  woke  to  fresh  life  the 
memory  of  things  long  past,  and  for  the  first  time  he  be- 
came oppressed  with  a  great  loneliness.  The  near  neigh- 
bourhood of  Brother  Paul  intensified  that  loneliness,  and 
at  length  he  asked  for  an  indulgence  and  spoke  to  the 
Father  Minister  again. 

"Brother  Paul  is  ill ;  let  me  attend  to  him,"  he  said. 

The  Father  Minister  shook  his  head.  "  The  brother  gets 
all  he  wants.     He  does  not  wish  for  constant  attendance." 

"  But  he  is  a  dying  man,  and  somebody  should  be  with 
him  always." 

"The  doctor  says  nothing  can  be  done  for  him.  He  may 
live  months.  But  if  he  is  dying,  let  vis  leave  him  to  medi- 
tate on  the  happiness  and  glory  of  another  world." 

John  made  no  further  struggle.  Another  door  had 
closed  on  him.  But  it  was  not  necessary  to  go  to  Brother 
Paul  that  he  might  be  with  him  always.  The  spiritual  eye 
could  see  everything.  Listening  to  the  sounds  in  the  ad- 
joining cell,  it  was  the  same  at  length  as  if  the  wall  between 
them  had  fallen  down  and  the  two  rooms  wer-e  one.  What- 
■ever  Brother  Paul  did  John  seemed  to  see,  whatever  he  said 
in  his  hours  of  pain  John  seemed  to  hear,  and  when  he 
lifted  his  scuttle  of  coal  from  the  place  at  the  door  where 
the  lay  brother  left  it,  John's  hand  seemed  to  bear  up  the 
weight. 

It  was  a  poor,  pathetic  folly,  but  it  brought  the  comfort 
of  company,  and  John  thought  with  a  pang  of  the  time 
when  he  had  wished  to  be  separated  from  Paul,  and  had  all 
but  asked  for  a  cell  elsewhere.  Paul  had  a  fire,  and  John 
could  hear  him  build  and  light  and  stir  it ;  and  sometimes 


238  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

when  this  was  done  he  could  sit  down  himself  before  his 
own  empty  grate  on  his  own  side  of  the  wall  and  fancy  they 
were  good  comrades  sitting  side  by  side. 

As  the  day  passed  he  thought  that  Brother  Paul  on  his 
part  also  was  touched  by  the  same  sense  of  company.  His 
silence  at  certain  moments,  his  half-articulate  salutations, 
his  repetition  of  the  sounds  that  John  himself  made,  seemed 
to  be  the  dumb  expression  of  a  sense  that,  in  spite  of  the 
wall  that  divided  them,  and  the  rule  of  silence  and  solitude 
that  separated  them  on  John's  side,  they  were,  nevertheless, 
together. 

Brother  Paul's  cough  grew  rapidly  worse,  and  at  last  it 
burst  into  a  fit  so  long  and  violent  as  to  seem  as  if  it  Avould 
never  end.  John  held  his  breath  and  listened.  "  He'll 
suffocate,"  he  thought ;  "  he'll  never  live  through  it !  "  But 
the  spasm  passed,  and  there  was  a  prolonged  hush,  a  dead 
stillness,  that  was  not  broken  by  so  much  as  the  sound  of  a 
breath.  Was  he  gone?  By  a  sudden  impulse,  in  the  agony 
of  his  suspense,  John  stretched  out  his  hand  and  knocked 
three  tin:ies  on  the  wall. 

There  was  a  short  silence,  and  then  faintly,  slowly,  and 
irregularly  three  other  knocks  came  back  to  him. 

Paul  had  understood,  and  John  shouted  in  his  joy.  But 
even  on  top  of  his  relief  came  his  religious  fears.  Had  he 
broken  the  rule  of  silence?    Were  they  guilty  of  a  sin? 

Nevertheless,  for  many  days  thereaftei',  though  they 
knew  it  was  a  fault,  in  this  vague  and  dumb  and  feeble 
fashion  they  communicated  constantly.  On  going  to  bed 
they  rapped  "  Good-night " ;  on  rising  for  the  day  they 
rapped  "  Good-morning."  They  rapped  when  the  bell  rang 
for  midday  service,  and  again  when  the  singing  came  up 
through  the  courtyard.  And  sometimes  they  rapped  from 
sympathy  and  sometimes  from  pity,  and  sometimes  from 
mere  human  loneliness  and  the  love  of  company. 

Thus  did  these  exiles  from  life,  struggling  to  live  under 
the  eye  of  God  in  obedience  to  their  earthly  vow,  try  to 
cheer  their  crushed  and  fettered  souls,  and  to  comfort  each 
other  like  impi-isoned  children. 


THE  RELIGIOUS  LIFE.  239 


XVI. 

"  The  Priory,  St.  John's  Wood, 
"  London. 

"  Behold,  all  men  and  women  at  Glenfaba,  I  have  made 
one  further  change  in  my  role  of  female  Wandering  Jew  ! 
You  have  to  think  of  Glory  now,  dear  people,  in  a  nice 
house  iji  St.  John's  Wood,  though  there  is  no  wood  any- 
where visible  except  the  park,  where  tliey  keep  all  the  wild 
beasts  in  London — all  that  go  on  four  legs,  you  know.  The 
master  of  the  mansion  is  Mr.  Carl  Koenig,  a  dear  old  hippo- 
potamus who  is  five-feet-nothing  in  his  boots,  and  has  pierc- 
ing black  eyes  and  an  electroplated  mustache.  He  is  a  sort 
of  an  English-German-Dutch-Polish  musician.  When  he 
talks  of  himself  as  an  organist  he  is  always  a  little  John 
Bull,  being  F.  R.  C.  O.  and  lots  of  things  besides ;  when  he 
speaks  of  '  Vaterland '  he  is  a  German ;  when  he  mentions 
the  sea  he  is  a  Dutchman ;  and  when  he  is  in  good  spirits 
(or  they  are  in  him)  he  .sings  'Poland  is  not  lost  forever!' 
all  over  the  house  until  you  sometimes  wish  it  were. 

"  His  wife  is  an  Englishwoman,  about  forty  or  more,  with 
big,  moist,  doggy  eyes  that  give  you  an  idea  of  slave-hu- 
mility, and  an  unappreciated  and  undeveloped  soul.  There 
never  wei'e  two  married  folk  less  alike,  she  being  one  of 
those  silent  creatures  who  come  into  a  room  and  sit  and 
listen  and  never  speak,  except  to  give  instructions  to  the 
maids,  while  he  is  always  cackling  like  an  old  hen  who  can 
never  lay  an  egg  without  letting  the  whole  world  know  all 
about  it.  They  have  two  female  servants — both  beautiful 
Cockneys — besides  a  boy  in  the  garden,  and  a  parrot  that 
holds  forth  all  over  the  place ;  and  their  house  is  the  ren- 
dezvous of  all  kinds  and  conditions  of  great  people,  for  Mr. 
Koenig  himself  is  a  sort  of  Gideon's  lamp  among  '  pros '  of 
nearly  every  order. 

"  And  now  you  want  to  know  how  I  come  to  be  here. 
You  ai'e  to  learn  then  that  Mr.  Koenig  happened  to  be  one 
of  my  patients  in  the  hospital,  he  having  gone  there  for  a 
slight  operation,  and  I  having  helped  to  nurse  him  through 
what  he  calls  his  '  opex'atic  cure.'     In  the  course  of  that  or- 


2^0  THE  CHRISTIAN, 

deal  he  had  music  of  a  less  excruciating  kind  sometimes,  it 
seems,  and  after  his  return  home  he  searched  for  me  all  over 
London  on  account  of  my  voice,  and  finding  me  unexpect- 
edly at  last  he  sent  his  wife  to  Mrs.  Jupe's  to  fetch  me,  and — 
and  here  I  am  in  a  dainty  little  dimity  room,  whose  walls 
are  covered  with  portraits  of  well-known  singers,  violinists, 
pianists,  and  composers,  with  their  affectionate  inscriptions 
underneath. 

"  But  you  want  to  learn  why  I  am  here.  Well,  you  must 
know  that  Mr.  Koenig  (although  a  foreign  musician)  is 
organist  of  All  Saints,  Belgravia,  where  they  sing  a  solo 
anthem  at  nearly  every  Sunday  morning  service  ;  and  hav- 
ing had  various  disappointments  at  the  hands  of  vocal 
soloists  from  the  Opera,  whose  'professional  engagements 
suddenly  intervened,'  ^he  conceived  the  audacious  idea  of 
'intervening'  a  woman  to  do  their  duty  permanently.  So 
this  is  my  position  in  the  church  at  which  John  Storm 
used  to  be  curate,  and  once  a  week  I  pipe  that  his  old  enemy 
the  canon  may  play.  But  as  that  good  man  is  of  St.  Paul's 
opinion  about  w^omen  holding  their  tongues  in  the  syna- 
gogue, and  is  blest  with  just  enough  ear  to  know  a  conti'alto 
from  a  corn-crake,  I  have  to  be  hidden  away  behind  a  screen 
in  order  that  his  reverence  may  have  all  the  fun  to  himself 
of  believing  me  to  be  a  boy. 

"So  you  see,  my  dearies,  you  needn't  be  anxious  about 
me,  '  at  all  at  all,'  seeing  that  I  am  living  in  this  atmosphere 
of  art  and  the  odour  of  sanctity,  and  that  I  have  kept  only 
one  tiny  little  thing  back,  and  I  am  going  to  tell  you  that 
now.  You  were  afraid  that  I  might  go  too  often  to  the  thea- 
tre, Aunt  Anna.  Never  mind,  auntie,  I  shall  not  be  going 
so  very  often  now,  and  in  proof  thereof  permit  me  to  intro- 
duce myself  in  my  future  style  and  character— Miss  Glory 
Quayle,  the  eminent  social  entertainer!  You  don't  know 
what  that  is,  dear  people  ?  It  is  quite  simple  and  innocent, 
nevcrtlieless.  I  am  to  go  to  the  houses  of  smart  people 
when  tlioy  give  tlicir  grand  jiarties  and  sing  and  recite,  and 
so  forth.  Nothing  wrong,  you  see— only  what  I  used  to  do 
at  Glenfaba. 

"  You  must  know  that,  just  as  in  the  country  the  men  go 
to  the  smithy  when  they  have  nothing  more  pressing  on 


THE  RELIGIOUS  LIFE.  241 

hand  than  to  settle  the  affairs  of  the  uiiivei'se,  and  tlie 
women  to  the  mangle-house  when  they  have  to  mang-le 
other  things  besides  clothes,  so  in  the  towns  the  poor  rich 
people  have  their  own  particular  diversion,  which  they  call 
their  'At  Homes.'  Mr.  Drake  used  to  tell  me  they  were  ter- 
rible Tower-of-Babel  concerns,  at  which  everybody  talked  at 
once,  and  all  the  tongues  in  the  place  went  'click-clack, 
world  without  end.'  But  they  must  be  perfectly  charming 
for  all  that ;  and  when  I  think  of  the  dresses  and  the  diamonds 
and  the  titles  as  long  as  your  breath — oh,  dear  !  oh,  dear  ! 

"  I  shall  see  it  all  soon,  I  suppose,  for  to  supply  the  place 
of  the  hammer  and  the  anvil  the  smart  folks  always  add 
musical  accompaniment  to  the  confusion  of  tongues,  and 
Mr.  Koenig,  who  has  a  choral  company,  goes  to  the  cream 
of  the  cream  of  such  gatherings,  and  sings  and  plays  from 
Grieg  and  Schumann,  and  Liszt  and  Wagner,  and  Chopin 
and  Paderewski,  and  the  place  intended  for  me  in  this  grand 
organization  would  api^ear  to  be  that  of  jester  to  my  lords 
and  ladies.  ' Ach  Gott!''  says  Mr.  Koenig,  who  'speaks 
ver'  bad  de  Englisch,'  '  your  great  people  vant  de  last  new 
ting.  One  lady  she  say  to  me,  "  Dear  Mr.  Koenig,  I  tink  I 
shall  not  ask  you  dis  season.  I  hear  you  everyvheres  I  go 
to,  and  I  get  so  tired  of  peoples."  But  vhen  I  takes  anoder 
wis  me  I  am  a  new  beesness.  You  shall  sing  and  recite 
your  leetle  funny  tings.  Your  great  people  tink  dey  loof 
music,  but  dey  loof  better  to  laugh.  "For  mercy's  sake 
make  dem  laugh,  Mr.  Koenig  " — dat's  vhat  a  great  man  say 
to  me.  But,  my  gootness,  how  can  I  ?  I  am  a  musician,  I 
am  a  composer,  I  am  an  arteeste  ! ' 

"For  this  high  and  noble  office  I  have  been  going 
through  a  purgatory  of  preparation  in  which  I  have  some- 
times hai'dly  known  whether  I  was  a  hurdy-gurdy  or  an 
explosion  of  cats,  and  the  future  female  jester  has  even  been 
known  to  lie  down  on  the  floor  and  cry  in  her  dumps  of  de- 
spair or  some  such  devilry.  However,  Mr.  Koenig  begins  to 
believe  that  I  am  passable,  and  my  first  appearance  is  to  be 
made  immediately  after  Easter,  at  the  house  of  the  Home 
Secretary,  where  it  is  not  improbable,  dear  Aiuit  Rachel, 
that  I  may  meet  Mr.  Drake,  although  that  is  no  part  of  my 
programme. 


242  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

"Of  course,  I  shall  have  to  look  charming  in  any  case, 
and  I  am  already  busy  with  my  dress.  It  is  a  black  silk 
gown  with  a  tight-fitting  bodice.  The  bodice  has  windbag 
sleeves,  formed  of  shawl  pieces  of  guii)ure  lace,  and  some 
lilies  of  the  valley  on  the  breast,  finished  with  a  waistband 
of  heliotrope  velvet,  and  I  am  going  to  wear  long  black 
gloves  all  the  way  up  my  arms,  which  are  growing  round 
and  plump,  and  lovely  enough  for  anything.  The  skirt  is 
my  old  one,  and  I  got  the  lace  for  three-and-six,  so  I  am  not 
ruining  myself,  you  see  ;  and  though  my  hair  is  getting  red- 
der than  ever,  red  is  the  fashionable  colour  in  London  now, 
therefore  I  sha'n't  waste  much  money  on  dyes. 

"  But  for  all  this  brave  exterior,  when  the  time  comes  I 
know  that  down  in  my  heart  I  shall  be  terrified.  It  will  be 
like  the  first  dive  of  the  year.  '  One  plunge.  Glory,  my 
child,'  and  then  over  I'll  go  !  I  partly  realize  already  what 
it  will  be  like  by  my  experiences  on  Sunday  evenings  when 
the  celebrities  come  here  after  church,  and  Mr.  Koenig  ex- 
hibits me  to  admiring  friends  and  tells  them  how  I  brought 
him  '  goot  look,'  and  I  overhear  them  say,  '  That  girl  will 
show  them  all  something  yet.'  Oh,  this  London  is  adorable, 
my  dears,  with  its  wit  and  fashion,  and  gaietj^  and  luxury  ! 
and  I  have  concluded  that  to  live  in  the  world  is  the  best 
thing  one  can  do,  after  all.  Some  people  say  hard  things 
about  it,  and  want  to  reform  it,  or  even  to  leave  it  altogether  •, 
but  I  love  it !  I  love  it !  and  think  it  just  charming ! 

"  And  now  spring  is  here,  and  the  Avorld  is  lovely  in  its 
yellow  and  green.  It  must  be  urromassy  nice  over  yandher 
in  the  '  oilan '  too,  with  the  primroses  and  the  violets  and 
the  gorse  in  the  glen.  Oh,  dear  !  oh,  dear !  I  can  smell  it  all 
three  hundred  miles  away!  The  lilacs  will  be  out  at 
Glenfaba  now,  and  Aunt  Anna  will  be  collecting  her  East- 
er eggs.  Well— wait  a  whiley,  and  I'll  come  to  thee,  my 
dears ! 

"  Not  a  word  from  John  Storm,  of  cour.se.  No  doubt  he 
is  figliting  with  shadows  while  other  people  are  sti'uggling 
with  realities.  They  tell  me  these  Brotherhoods  are  com- 
mon in  the  Church  now,  though  most  of  them  are  secret 
.societies;  l)ut  tlie  more  I  think  of  that  kind  of  religion  the 
more  it  looks  like  setting  tasks  to  try  faith,  as  if  God  were  a 


THE  RELIGIOUS  LIFE.  243 

coquettish  woman.  That  reminds  me  that  Mr.  Worldly- 
Wealthy-Wiseman  is  no  longer  a  canon,  having  got  him- 
self made  archdeacon,  and  as  such  he  looks  more  than 
ever  like  a  black  Spanish  cock,  being  clad,  of  course,  in 
those  funny  clothes,  like  the  bishops,  which  always  make 
one  think  their  lordships  must  be  in  doubt  on  getting  up  in 
the  morning  whether  they  ought  to  wear  a  schoolboy's 
knickerbockers  or  a  ballet-girl's  skirt,  so  they  settle  the  diffi- 
culty by  putting  on  both.  For  this  reason  I  try  to  avoid 
him  when  on  duty  at  the  church,  lest  I  should  be  suddenly 
possessed  of  a  devil  and  behave  badly  to  his  face.  But  this 
being  Lent,  and  there  being  special  preachers  every  day,  it 
chanced  on  Sunday  morning  that  I  came  upon  three  of  him 
all  in  a  row,  and  oh,  my  gracious,  Solomon  in  all  his  glory 
was  not  arrayed  like  one  of  these ! 

"  It  is  too  bad,  though,  to  think  that  men  like  John  Storm 
can't  find  room  in  the  Church  for  the  sole  of  their  foot, 
while  this  archdemon  is  flourisliing  in  it  like  a  green  bay 
tree.  Forgive  me,  grandfather ;  I  can't  help  it.  But  then 
the  Church  in  the  country  doesn't  seem  the  same  as  in  town. 
There  you  are  somehow  made  to  feel  that  man  does  a  little 
and  God  does  all  the  rest,  w^hile  here  we  reverse  that  order 
of  things,  with  the  result  that  this  seed  of  the  Amalekite 
but  never  mind  ! 

"  I  went  to  the  Zoo  this  morning.  There  was  a  lion  shut 
up  in  a  cage  all  by  himself.  Such  a  solemn,  splendid,  silent 
fellow  ;  I  could  have  cried. 

"But  it  is  the  witching  hour  of  night,  my  daughter,  and 
you  must  put  yourself  to  bed.     '  Goot  look  ! ' 

"  Glory." 


XVII. 

In  the  middle  of  the  night  of  Good  Friday,  John  Storm 
was  wakened  by  noises  in  the  adjoining  cell.  There  seemed 
to  be  the  voices  of  two  men  in  angry  and  violent  altercation, 
the  one  threatening  and  denouncing,  the  other  protesting 
and  supplicating. 

"  The  girl  is  dead— isn't  that  proof  enough  ? "  said  one 


244: 


THE  CHRISTIAN. 


voice.  "  It's  a  lie !  It's  a  false  accusation  ! "  said  the  other 
voice.  "  Paul,  what  are  you  going  to  do  ? "  "  Put  this 
bullet  in  your  brain."  "  But  I'm  innocent— I  take  the  Al- 
mighty to  witness  that  I'm  innocent.  Put  the  pistol  down. 
Help!  help!"  "No  use  calling— there's  nobody  in  the 
house."  ''Mercy!  mercy!  I  haven't  much  money  about 
me,  but  you  shall  have  it  all.  Take  everything— every- 
thing—and  if  there's  anything  I  can  do  to  start  you  in  life 
—I'm  rich,  Paul— I  have  influence— only  spare  me!" 
"  Scoundrel,  do  you  think  you  can  buy  me  as  you  bought 
my  sister  ? "  "  And  if  I  did  I  was  not  the  only  one." 
"  Liar  !  Tell  that  to  herself  when  you  meet  her  at  the  judg- 
ment !  "    "  Assassin  !  "     "  Too  late— you've  met  her ! " 

John  Storm  listened  and  understood.  The  two  voices 
were  one  voice,  which  was  the  voice  of  Brother  Paul.  The 
lay  brother  was  delirious.  His  poor  broken  brain  was 
rambling  in  the  ways  of  the  past.  He  was  re-enacting  the 
scene  of  his  crime. 

John  hesitated.  His  impulse  was  to  fly  into  Paul's  room 
and  lay  hold  of  him,  that  he  might  prevent  him  from  doing 
himself  any  injury.  But  he  remembered  the  law  of  the 
community,  that  no  member  of  it  should  go  into  the  cell  of 
another  under  pain  of  grievous  penance.  And  then  there 
was  the  rule  of  silence  and  solitude  which  had  not  yet  been 
lifted  away. 

But  monks  are  great  sophists,  and  at  the  next  moment 
John  Storm  had  told  himself  that  it  was  not  Brother  Paul 
who  was  in  the  adjoining  room,  but  only  his  i^oor  perishing 
body,  labouring  through  the  last  sloughs  of  the  twilight 
land  of  death.  Paul  himself,  his  soul,  his  spirit,  was  far 
away.  Hence  it  could  be  no  sin  to  go  into  the  cell  of  one 
whose  senses  were  not  there. 

His  own  door  was  locked,  but  he  scraped  back  the  key 
and  lit  his  candle,  and  stepped  into  the  passage.  The  voices 
wore  still  loud  in  Paul's  room,  but  no  one  seemed  to  hear 
thorn.  Not  another  sound  broke  the  silence  of  the  sleeping 
house.  The  cell  beyond  Paul's  was  empty.  It  was  Brother 
Andrew's  cell,  and  Andrew  was  at  the  door  doAvnstairs. 

When  John  Storm  entered  the  dark  room,  candle  in 
liand,  Brother  Paul  was  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  floor 


THE  RELIGIOUS  LIFE.  245 

with  one  liand  outstretched  and  a  ghastly  and  appalling 
smile  upon  his  face.  He  was  pale  as  death,  his  eyes  were 
ablaze,  his  forehead  was  sti'eaniing  with  perspiration,  and 
he  was  breathing  from  the  depths  of  his  chest.  He  wiped 
the  dews  from  his  brow  and  said  in  a  choking  voice,  "  He 
has  died  as  he  lived — a  liar  and  a  scoundrel !  " 

John  took  him  by  the  hand  and  drew  him  to  the  bed, 
and,  putting  him  to  sit  there,  he  tried  to  soothe  and  comfort 
him.  He  was  terrified  at  first  by  the  soujid  of  his  own 
voice,  but  the  sophism  that  had  served  to  bring  him  served 
to  supj)ort  him  also,  and  he  told  himself  it  could  be  no 
breach  of  the  rule  of  silence  to  speak  to  one  who  was  not 
there.  The  delirium  of  the  lay  brother  spent  itself  at 
length,  and  he  fell  into  a  deep  sleep. 

Next  day,  when  Brother  Andrew  came  to  John's  cell 
with  the  food,  he  began  to  sing  as  if  to  himself  while  he 
bustled  about  the  room. 

*'  Brother  Paul  is  sinking — he  is  sinking  rapidly — Father 
Jerrold  has  confessed  him — he  has  taken  the  sacrament — 
and  is  very  patient." 

This,  as  if  it  had  been  a  Gregorian  chant,  the  great  fel- 
low had  hit  iipon  as  a  means  of  communicating  with  John 
without  breaking  rule  and  committing  sin. 

John  did  not  lock  his  door  on  the  following  night.  On 
going  to  bed  he  listened  for  the  noises  he  had  heard  before, 
half  fearing  and  yet  half  wishing  that  he  might  hear  them 
again.  But  lie  heard  nothing,  and  toward  midnight  he  fell 
asleep.  Something  made  him  shudder,  and  he  awoke  with 
the  sensation  of  moonlight  on  his  face.  The  moon  was 
indeed  shining,  and  its  sejiulchral  light  was  on  a  figure  that 
'  stood  by  the  foot  of  the  bed.  It  was  Paul,  with  a  livid  face, 
murmuring  his  name  in  a  voice  almost  as  faint  as  a  breath. 

John  leaped  up  and  put  his  arms  about  him. 

"You  are  ill.  brother — very  ill." 

"  I  am  dying." 

"  Help  !  help  ! "  cried  John,  and  he  made  for  the  door. 

"  Hush,  brother,  hush  !  " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  care  for  rule.     Rule  is  nothing  in  a  case 

like  this.    And,   besides,   it    is    an    understood    thing 

Help ! " 


246  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

"  I  implore  you,  I  conjure  you  ! "  said  Paul  in  a  voice 
strangled  by  weakness.  "Let  them  leave  us  together  a 
little  longer.  It  was  by  my  own  wish  that  I  was  left  alone. 
I  have  something  to  say  to  you — something  to  confess.  I 
have  to  ask  your  pardon." 

In  two  strides  John  had  reached  the  door,  but  he  came 
back  without  opening  it. 

"  Why,  my  poor  lad,  what  have  you  done  to  me  ? " 

"  When  you  let  me  out  of  the  house  to  go  in  search  of 
my  sister " 

"  That  was  long  ago  ;  we'll  not  talk  of  it  now,  brother." 

"  But  I  can  not  die  in  peace  without  telling  you.  You 
remember  that  I  had  something  to  say  to  her  ? " 

"Yes." 

"It  was  a  threat.  I  was  going  to  tell  her  that  unless 
she  gave  pp  her  way  of  Kfe  I  should  find  the  man  who 
had  been  the  cause  of  it  and  follow  him  up  and  kill 
him." 

"  It  was  only  a  temptation  of  the  devil,  brother,  and  it  is 
past ;  and  now " 

"  Don't  you  see  what  I  was  going  to  do  ?  I  was  going  to 
bring  trouble  and  disgrace  upon  you  also  as  my  comrade 
and  accomplice.  That's  what  a  man  Njomes  to  when 
Satan " 

"  But  God  willed  it  otherwise,  bi'other ;  let  us  say  no 
more  about  it." 

"  You  forgive  me,  then  ? " 

"  Forgive  ?  It  is  I  who  ought  to  ask  for  your  forgive- 
ness, and  perhaps  if  I  told  you  everything " 

"  There  is  something  else.  Listen !  The  Almighty  is 
calling  me ;  I  have  no  time  to  lose." 

"  But  you  are  so  cold,  brother !  Lie  on  the  bed,  and  I'll 
cover  you  with  the  bedclotlies.  Oh,  never  fear;  they 
sha'n't  separate  us  again.  If  the  Father  were  at  home— he 
is  so  good  and  tender-hearted— but  no  matter.  There, 
there ! " 

"  You  will  despise  and  hate  me — you  who  are  so  holy 
and  brave,  and  have  given  up  everything  and  conquered 
the  world,  and  even  triumphed  over  love  itself!" 

"Don't  say  that,  brother." 


THE  RELIGIOUS  LIFE.  247 

"  It's  true,  isn't  it  ?  Everybody  knows  what  a  holy  life 
you  live." 

"  Hush !  " 

"  But  I  have  never  lived  the  religious  life  at  all,  and  I 
only  came  to  it  as  a  refuge  from  the  law  and  the  gallows ; 
and  if  the  Father  hadn't " 

"  Another  time,  brother." 

"Yes,  the  story  I  told  the  police  was  true,  and  I  had 
really " 

"  Hush,  brother,  hush !  I  won't  hear  you.  What  you 
are  saying  is  for  God's  ear  only,  and,  whatever  you  have 
done,  God  will  judge  your  soul  in  mercy.  We  have  only 
to  ask  him " 

"  Quick,  then  ;  the  last  sands  are  running  out !  "  and  he 
strove  to  rise  and  kneel. 

"  Lie  still,  brother ;  God  will  accept  the  humiliation  of 
your  soul." 

"  No,  no,  let  me  up ;  let  me  kneel  beside  you.  The 
prayer  for  the  dying — say  it  with  me,  Brother  Storm ;  let 
us  say  it  together.     '  O  Lord,  save '  " 

"  '  O  Lord,  save  thy  servant, 

"  '  Which  putteth  his  trust  in  thee. 

"  '  Send  him  help  from  thy  holy  2:)lace. 

'■'"'And  .  ,  .  evermore  .  .  .  mightily  defend  him. 

"  '  Let  the  enemy  have  no  advantage  over  him. 

"  '  Nor  the  .  .  .  tvicJced 

"  'Be  unto  him,  O  Lord,  a  strong  toiver. 

"  '  From  the 

"  '  O  Lord,  hear  our  i^rayers. 

'''And '" 

"  Paul !  Paul  !  Speak  to  me  !  Speak  !  Don't  leave  me  ! 
We  shall  console  and  support  each  other.  You  shall  come 
to  me,  I  will  go  to  you.  No  matter  about  the  religious  life. 
One  word  !     My  lad,  my  lad  !  " 

But  Brother  Paul  had  gone.  Tlie  captured  eagle  with 
the  broken  wing  had  slipped  its  chain  at  last. 

In  the  terrible  peace  which  followed  the  air  of  the  room 
seemed  to  become  empty.  John  Storm  felt  chill  and  dizzy, 
and  a  great  awe  fell  upon  him.  The  courage  which  he  had 
built  up  in  sight  of  Brother  Paul's  sufiPerings  ebbed  rapidly 


248 


THE  CHRISTIAN. 


away,  and  his  old  fear  of  rule  flowed  back.  He  must  carry 
the  lay  brother  to  his  cell;  he  must  be  ignorant  of  his 
death;  he  must  conceal  and  cover  up  everything.  The 
moon  had  gone  by  this  time,  for  it  was  near  to  morning, 
and  the  shadows  of  night  were  contending  with  the  leaden 
hues  of  dawn. 

He  opened  the  door  and  listened.  The  house  was  still 
quite  silent.  He  walked  on  tip-toe  to  the  end  of  the  corri- 
dor, pausing  at  every  cell.  There  was  no  sound  anywhere, 
except  the  sonorous  breathing  of  some  heavy  sleeper  and 
the  ticking  of  the  clock  in  the  hall. 

Then  he  returned  to  the  chamber  of  death,  and,  lifting 
the  body  in  his  arms,  he  carried  it  back  to  the  room  which 
it  had  so  recently  left  as  a  living  man.  Tlie  body  was  light, 
and  he  scarcely  felt  its  weight,  for  the  limbs  under  the 
cassock  had  dried  up  like  withered  twigs.  He  stretched 
them  out  on  the  bed  that  they  might  be  fit  for  death's  com- 
posing hand,  and  then  closed  the  eyes  and  laid  the  hands 
together  on  the  breast,  and  took  the  heavy  cross  that  hung 
about  the  neck  and  put  it  as  well  as  he  could  into  the  nerve- 
less fingers.  By  this  time  the  daylight  had  overcome  the 
shadows  of  the  fore-dawn,  and  the  ruddy  glow  of  morning 
was  gliding  into  the  room.  Traffic  was  beginning  to  stir  in 
the  sleeping  city,  and  a  cart  was  rattling  down  the  street. 

One  glance  more  he  gave  at  the  dead  brother's  face,  and 
going  down  on  his  knees  beside  it  he  said  a  prayer  and 
cro.ssed  himself.  Then  he  rose  and  stole  back  to  his  room 
and  shut  the  door  without  a  sound. 

There  was  a  boundless  relief  when  this  was  done,  and 
partly  from  relief  and  partly  from  exhaustion  he  fell  asleep. 
He  slept  for  a  few  minutes  only,  but  sleep  knows  no  time, 
and  a  moment  in  its  garden  of  forgetfulne.ss  will  Avipe  out 
the  bitterness  of  a  life.  When  he  awoke  he  stretched  out 
his  hand  as  he  was  accustomed  to  do  and  rapped  three  times 
on  the  wall.  But  the  tide  of  consciousness  returned  to  him 
even  as  he  did  .so,  and  in  the  dead  silence  that  followed  his 
very  heart  grew  cold. 

*rhen  the  Father  Minister  began  to  awaken  the  household. 
His  deep  call  and  tlie  niuffied  answer  which  followed  it  rose 
higlier  and  liigher  and  came  nearer  and  nearer,  and  every 


THE  RELIGIOUS  LIFE.  249 

step  as  he  approached  seemed  to  beat  upon  John  Storm's 
brain.  He  had  reached  the  topmost  story — he  was  coming 
down  the  corridoi' — lie  was  standing  before  the  door  of  the 
dead  man's  cell. 

"  Benedicamus  Domino  !  "  he  called,  but  no  answer  came 
back  to  him.  He  called  again,  and  there  was  a  short  and 
terrible  silence. 

John  Storm  held  his  breath  and  listened.  By  the  faint 
click  of  the  lock  he  knew  that  the  door  had  been  opened, 
and  that  the  Father  Minister  had  entered  the  room.  There 
was  a  muttered  exclamation  and  then  another  short  silence, 
and  after  that  there  came  the  click  of  the  lock  again.  The 
door  had  been  closed,  and  the  Father  Minister  had  resumed 
his  rounds.  When  he  called  at  the  door  of  John  Storm's 
cell  not  a  tone  of  his  voice  would  have  told  that  anything 
unusual  had  taken  place. 

The  bell  rang,  and  the  brothers  trooped  down  the  stairs. 
Presently  the  low,  droning  sound  of  their  voices  came  up 
from  the  chapel  where  they  were  saying  Lauds.  But  the 
service  had  scarcely  ended  when  the  Father  Minister's  step 
was  on  the  stair  again.  This  time  another  was  with  him.  It 
was  the  doctor.  They  entered  the  brother's  room  and  closed 
the  door  behind  them.  From  the  other  side  of  the  wall 
John  Storm  followed  every  movement  and  every  word. 
.  "  So  he  has  gone  at  last,  poor  soul ! " 

"  Is  he  long  dead,  doctor  ? " 

"  Some  hours,  certainly.  Was  there  nobody  with  him 
then  ? " 

"He  didn't  wish  for  anybody.  And  then  you  told  us 
that  nothing  could  be  done,  and  that  he  might  live  a 
month." 

"Still,  a  dying  man,  you  know But  how  strangely 

composed  he  looks !  And  then  the  cross  on  his  breast  as 
well ! " 

"  He  was  very  devout  and  penitent.  He  made  his  last 
devotion  yesterday  with  an  intensity  of  joy  such  as  I  have 
rarely  witnessed." 

"  His  eyes  closed,  too  !  You  are  sure  there  was  nobody 
with  him  ? " 

"  Nobody  whatever." 
17 


250 


THE  CHRISTIAN. 


There  was  a  moment's  silence  and  then  the  doctor  said, 
"  Well,  he  has  slipped  his  anchor  at  last,  poor  soul !  " 

"  Yes,  he  has  launched  on  the  ocean  of  the  love  of  God. 
May  we  all  be  as  ready  when  our  call  comes  ! " 

They  came  back  to  the  corridor,  and  John  heard  their 
footsteps  going  downstairs.  Then  for  some  minutes  there 
were  unusual  noises  below.  Rapid  steps  were  coming  and 
going,  the  hall  bell  was  ringing,  and  the  front  door  was 
opening  and  shutting. 

An  hour  later  Brother  Andrew  came  with  the  breakfast. 
He  was  obviously  excited,  and  putting  down  the  tray  he 
began  to  busy  himself  in  the  room  and  to  sing,  as  before,  in 
his  pretence  of  a  Gregorian  chant : 

"Brother  Paul  is  dead— he  died  in  the  night— there 
was  nobody  with  him — we  are  sorry  he  has  left  vis,  but  glad 
he  is  at  peace — God  rest  the  soul  of  our  poor  Brother 
Paul ! " 

It  was  Easter  Day.  At  midday  service  in  the  church  the 
brothers  sang  the  Easter  hymn,  and  a  mighty  longing  took 
hold  of  John  Storm  for  his  own  resurrection  from  his  living 
grave. 

Next  day  there  was  much  coming  and  going  between  the 
world  outside  and  the  adjoining  cell,  and  late  at  night  there 
were  heavy  and  shambling  footsteps,  and  even  some  coarse 
and  ribald  talk. 

"  Bear  a  'and.  myte." 

"  Well,  they  won't  have  their  backs  broke  as  carry  this 
one  downstairs.     He  ain't  a  Danny  Lambert,  anyway." 

"  No,  they  don't  feed  ye  on  Bovril  in  plyces  syme  as  this. 
I'll  lay  ye  odds  yer  own  looking-glass  wouldn't  know  ye 
arter  three  months  'ard  on  religion  and  dry  tommy." 

"  It  pawses  me  'ow  people  tyke  to  it.  Gimme  my  pint  of 
four-half,  and  my  own  childring  to  follow  me." 

Early  on  the  following  morning  a  stroke  rang  out  on  the 
bell,  then  anotlier  stroke,  and  again  another. 

"  It  is  the  knell,"  thouglit  John. 

A  group  of  the  lay  brothei's  came  up  and  passed  into  the 
room.  "  Now  I "  said  one,  as  if  giving  a  signal,  and  then  they 
l)asscd  out  again  with  the  measured  steps  of  men  who  bear  a 
burden.     "  They  are  taking  him  away,"  he  thought. 


THE.  RELIGIOUS  LIFE.  251 

He  listened  to  their  retreating  footsteps.  "  He  has  gone," 
he  murmured. 

The  passing  bell  continued  to  ring  out  minute  by  minute, 
and  presently  there  was  the  sound  of  singing.  "  It  is  the 
service  for  the  dead,"  he  told  himself. 

After  a  while  both  the  bell  and  the  singing  ceased,  and 
then  there  was  no  sound  anywhere  except  the  dull  rumble 
of  the  traffic  in  the  city  outside — the  deep  murmur  of  the 
mighty  sea  that  flows  on  forever. 

"What  am  I  doing  ? "  he  asked  himself.  "What  bolts 
and  bars  are  keeping  me  ?  I  am  guilty  of  a  folly.  I  am 
degrading  myself." 

At  midday  Brother  Andrew  came  with  his  food.  "  Brother 
Paul  is  buried,"  he  sang,  "  the  coffin  was  beautiful — it  Avas 
covered  with  flowers— we  buried  him  in  his  cassock,  with 
his  beads  and  psalter — we  left  the  cross  on  his  breast — he 
loved  it  and  died  with  it  in  his  hands — the  Father  has  come 
home — he  said  mass  this  morning." 

John  Storm  could  bear  no  more.  He  pushed  the  lay 
brother  aside  and  made  straight  for  the  Superior's  room. 

The  Father  was  sitting  before  the  fire,  looking  sad  and 
low  and  weary.  He  rose  to  his  feet  with  a  painful  smile,  as 
John  broke  into  his  cell  with  blazing  eyes,  and  cried  in  a 
choking  voice  : 

''  Father,  I  can  not  live  the  religious  life  any  longer !  I 
have  tried  to — with  all  my  soul  and  strength  I've  tried  to, 
but  I  can  not,  I  can  not !  This  life  of  prayer  and  penance 
and  meditation  is  stifling  me,  and  corrupting  me,  and  crush- 
ing the  man  out  of  me,  and  I  can  not  bear  it." 

"  "V^Hiat  are  you  saying,  my  son  ? " 

"I  have  been  deceiving  you  and  myself  and  every- 
body." 

"  Deceiving  me  ? " 

"  It  was  for  my  own  ends  and  not  Brother  Paul's  that  I 
helped  him  to  break  obedience,  and  so  injure  his  health 
and  hasten  his  death." 

"  Your  own  ? " 

"  I,  too,  had  a  sister  in  the  world,  and  my  heart  was 
hungry  for  news  of  her." 

"  A  sister  ? " 


252 


THE   CHRISTIAN. 


"Some  one  nearer  than  a  sister — and  all  my  spiritual 
life  has  been  a  sham." 

"  My  son,  my  son  !  " 

"Forgive  me,  Father.  I  shall  love  you  and  honour  you 
and  revere  you  always ;  but  I  must  break  my  obedience 
and  leave  you,  or  I  shall  be  a  hypocrite  and  a  liar  and  a 
cheat." 

XVIII. 

The  dinner  party  at  the  Home  Secretary's  took  place  on 
Wednesday,  in  the  week  after  Easter.  It  had  rained  during 
the  day,  but  cleared  up  toward  night.  Glory  and  Koenig 
had  taken  an  omnibus  to  Waterloo  Place,  and  then  walked 
up  the  wide  street  that  ends  with  the  wide  steps  going  down 
to  the  park.  Two  lines  of  lofty  stone  houses  go  off  to  right 
and  left,  and  the  house  they  were  going  to  was  one  of 
them. 

A  footman  received  them  with  sombre  but  easy  familiar- 
ity. The  artistes  ?  Yes.  They  were  shown  into  the  library, 
and  light  refreshments  were  brought  in  to  them  on  a  tray. 
Three  other  members  of  the  choral  company  were  there  al- 
ready. Glory  was  seeing  it  all  for  the  first  time,  and  Koenig 
was  describing  and  explaining  everything  in  broken  whis- 
pers. 

A  band  was  playing  in  the  well  of  the  circular  staircase, 
and  a  second  footman  stood  in  an  alcove  behind  an  outwork 
of  hats  and  overcoats.  The  first  footman  reappeared.  Were 
the  artistes  ready  to  go  to  the  drawing-room  ? 

They  followed  him  upstairs.  The  band  had  stopped,  and 
there  was  the  distant  hum  of  voices  and  the  crackle  of  plates. 
Waiters  were  coming  and  going  from  the  dining-room,  and 
the  butler  stood  at  the  door  giving  instructions.  At  one 
moment  there  was  a  glimpse  within  of  ladies  in  gorgeous 
dresses,  and  a  table  laden  Avith  silver  and  bright  with  fairy- 
lamps.  When  the  door  opened  the  voices  grew  louder,  when 
it  closed  the  sounds  were  deadened. 

The  upper  landing  opened  on  to  a  salon  which  had  three 
windows  down  to  tlie  ground,  and  half  of  each  stood  open. 
Outside  there  was  a  wide  terrace   lit  up  by  Chinese  and 


THE  RELIGIOUS  LIFE.  253 

Moorish  lanterns.  Beyond  was  the  dark  patch  of  the  park, 
and  farther  still  the  towers  of  the  Abbey  and  the  clock  of 
Westminster,  but  the  great  light  was  not  burning  to-night. 

"  De  House  naivare  sits  on  Vednesday  night,"  said 
Koenig. 

They  passed  into  the  drawing-room,  which  was  empty. 
The  standing  lamps  were  subdued  by  coverings  of  yellow- 
silk  lace.     There  was  a  piano  and  an  organ. 

"  Ve'll  stay  here,"  said  Koenig,  opening  the  organ,  and 
Glory  stood  by  his  side. 

Presently  there  were  ripples  of  laughter,  sounds  of  quick, 
indistinguishable  voices,  waves  of  heliotrope,  and  the  rustle 
of  silk  dresses  on  the  stairs.  Then  the  ladies  entered.  Two 
or  three  of  them  who  were  elderly  leaned  their  I'ight  hands 
on  the  arms  of  younger  women,  and  walked  with  ebony 
sticks  in  their  left.  An  old  lady  wearing  black  satin  and  a 
large  brooch  came  last.  Koenig  rose  and  bowed  to  her. 
Glory  prepared  to  bow  also,  but  the  lady  gave  her  a  side 
inclination  of  the  head  as  she  sat  in  a  well-cushioned  chair 
under  a  lamp,  and  Glory's  bow  was  abridged. 

The  ladies  sat  and  talked,  and  Glory  tried  to  listen.  There 
were  little  nothings,  punctuated  by  trills  of  feminine  laugh- 
ter. She  thought  the  conversation  rather  silly.  More  than 
once  the  ladies  lifted  their  lorgnettes  and  looked  at  her.  She 
set  her  lips  hard  and  looked  back  without  flinching. 

A  footman  brought  tea  on  a  tray,  and  then  there  was  the 
tinkle  of  cup  and  saucer,  and  more  laughter.  The  lady  in 
satin  looked  round  at  Koenig,  and  he  began  to  play  the 
organ.  He  played  superbly,  but  nobody  seemed  to  listen. 
When  he  finished  there  was  a  pause,  and  everybody  said : 

"  Oh,  thank  you  ;  we're  all— er "  and  then  the  talk  began 

again.  The  vocal  soloist  sang  some  ballad  of  Schumann, 
and  as  long  as  it  lasted  an  old  lady  with  an  ear-trumpet  sat 
at  the  foot  of  the  piano,  and  a  young  girl  spoke  into  it. 
When  it  was  over,  everybody  said,  "Ah,  that  dear  old 
thing  ! "  Then  there  was  an  outbreak  of  deeper  voices  from 
the  stairs,  with  lustier  laughter  and  heavier  steps. 

The  gentlemen  appeared,  talking  loudly  as  they  entered. 
Koenig  was  back  at  the  organ  and  playing  as  if  he  wished 
it  were  the  'cello  and  the  drum  and  the  whole  brass  band. 


254 


THE  CHRISTIAN. 


Glory  was  watching  everything ;  it  was  beginning  to  be  very 
funny.  Suddenly  it  ceased  to  be  so.  One  of  the  gentlemen 
Avas  saying,  in  a  tired  drawl :  "  Old  Koenig  again  !  How  the 
old  boy  lasts !  Seem  to  have  been  hearing  him  since  the 
Flood,  don't  you  know." 

It  was  Lord  Eobert  Ure.  Glory  caught  one  glimpse  of 
him,  then  looked  down  at  her  slipper  and  pawed  at  the  car- 
pet. He  put  his  glass  in  his  eye,  screwed  up  the  left  side  of 
his  face,  and  looked  at  her. 

An  elderly  man  with  a  leonine  head  came  up  to  the  organ 
and  said  :  "  Got  anything  comic,  Mr.  Koenig  ?  All  had  the 
influenza  last  winter,  you  know,  and  lost  our  taste  fdf"  the 
classical." 

"Vith  pleasure,  sir,"  said  Koenig,  and  then  turning  to 
Glory  he  touched  her  wrist.  "  How's  de  pulse  ?  Ach  Gott ! 
beating  same  like  a  child's  !    Now  is  your  turn." 

Glory  made  a  step  forward,  and  the  talk  grew  louder  as 
she  was  observed.  She  heard  fragments  of  it.  "  Who  is 
she  ? "  "  Is  she  a  professional  ? "  "  Oh,  no — a  lady."  "  Sing, 
does  she,  or  is  it  whistling  ? "  "  No,  she's  a  professional ;  we 
had  her  last  year ;  she  does  conjuring."  And  then  the  voice 
she  had  heard  before  said,  "  By  Jove,  old  fellow,  your  young 
friend  looks  like  a  red  standard  rose  ! "  She  did  not  flinch. 
There  was  a  nervous  tremor  of  the  lip,  a  scarcely  perceptible 
curl  of  it,  and  then  she  began. 

It  was  Mylecharaine,  a  Manx  ballad  in  the  Anglo-Manx, 
about  a  farmer  who  was  a  miser.  His  daughter  was  ashamed 
of  him  because  he  dressed  shabbily  and  wore  yellow  stock- 
ings ;  but  he  answered  that  if  he  didn't  the  stocking  wouldn't 
be  yellow  that  would  be  forthcoming  for  her  dowry. 

She  sang,  recited,  talked,  acted,  lived  the  old  man,  and 
there  was  not  a  sound  until  she  finished,  except  laughter  and 
the  clapping  of  hands.  Then  there  was  a  general  taking  of 
breath  and  a  renewed  outbreak  of  gossip.  "  Really,  really  ! 
How— er— natural !  "    "  Natural— that's  it,  natural.    I  never 

— er "    "  Rather  good,  certainly  ;  in  fact,  quite  amusing." 

"  What  dialect  is  it  ? "  "  Irish,  of  course."  "  Of  course,  of 
course,"  with  many  nods  and  looks  of  knowledge,  and  a 
buzz  and  a  flutter  of  understanding.  "  Hope  shell  do  some- 
tliing  else."     "  Hush  !  she's  beginning." 


THE  RELIGIOUS  LIFE.  255 

It  was  Ny  Kiree  fo  Niaglitey,  a  rugged  old  wail  of  how 
the  sheep  were  lost  on  the  moixutains  in  a  great  snowstorm  ; 
but  it  was  full  of  ineffable  melancholy.  The  ladies  dropped 
their  lorgnettes,  the  men's  glasses  fell  from  their  eyes  and 
their  faces  straightened,  the  noisy  old  soul  with  the  ear- 
trumpet  sitting  under  Glory's  arm  was  snuffling  audibly, 
and  at  the  next  moment  there  was  a  chorus  of  admiring  re- 
marks. "  Ton  my  word,  this  is  something  new,  don't  you 
know  !  "  '■  Fine  girl  too  !  "  "  Fine  !  Irish  girls  often  run 
to  it."     "  That  old  miser — you  could  see  him  !  " 

"  What's  her  next  piece  ? — something  funny,  I  hope." 

Koenig's  pride  was  measureless,  and  Glory  did  not  get 
off  lightly.  He  cleared  the  floor  for  her,  and  announced 
that  with  the  indulgence,  etc.,  the  young  artiste  would  give 
an  imitation  of  common  girls  singing  in  the  street. 

The  company  laughed  until  they  screamed,  and  when 
the  song  was  finished  Glory  was  being  overwhelmed  with 
congratulations  and  inquiries.  "  Charming !  All  your 
pieces  are  charming  !  But  really,  my  dear  young  lady,  you 
must  be  more  careful  about  our  feelings.  Those  sheep  now 
— it  was  really  quite  too  sad."  The  old  lady  with  the  ear- 
trumpet  asked  Glory  whether  she  could  go  on  for  the  whole 
of  an  afternoon,  and  if  she  felt  much  fatigued  sometimes, 
and  didn't  often  catch  cold. 

But  the  lady  in  satin  came  to  her  relief  at  last.  "  You 
will  need  some  refreshment,"  she  said.     "Let  me  see  now  if 

I  can  not "  and  she  lifted  her  glass  and  looked  round 

the  room.  At  the  next  moment  a  voice  that  made  a  shud- 
der pass  over  her  said  :   - 

"  Perhaps  Jmay  have  the  pleasure  of  taking  Miss  Quayle 
down." 

It  was  Drake.  His  eyes  were  as  blue  and  boyish  as  be- 
fore, but  Glory  observed  at  once  that  he  had  grown  a  mus- 
tache, and  that  his  face  and  figure  were  firmer  and  more 
manlike.  A  few  minutes  afterward  they  had  passed  through 
one  of  the  windows  on  to  the  terrace  and  were  walking  to 
and  fro. 

It  was  cool  and  quiet  out  there  after  the  heat  and  hub- 
bub of  the  drawing-room.  The  night  was  soft  and  still. 
Hardly  a  breath  of  wind  stirred  the  leaves  of  the  trees  in  the 


256  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

park  below.  The  rain  had  left  a  dewy  moistness  iu  the  air, 
and  a  fragrant  mist  was  lying  over  the  grass.  The  stars 
were  out,  and  the  moon  had  just  risen  behind  the  towers  of 
Westminster. 

Glory  was  flushed  with  her  success.  Her  eyes  sparkled 
and  her  step  was  light  and  free.  Drake  touched  her  hand 
as  it  lay  on  his  arm  and  said  : 

*'  And  now  that  I've  got  you  to  myself  I  must  begin  by 
scolding  you." 

They  looked  at  one  another  and  smiled.  "  Have  I  dis- 
pleased you  so  much  to-night  ?  "  she  said. 

"  It's  not  that.     Where  have  you  been  all  this  time  ? " 

"  Ah,  if  you  only  knew  ! "  She  had  stopped  and  was 
looking  into  the  darkness. 

"  I  want  to  know.     Why  didn't  you  answer  my  letter  ?  " 

"  Your  letter  ?  "  She  was  clutching  at  the  lilies  of  the 
valley  in  her  bosom. 

He  tapped  her  hand  lightly  and  said,  "  Well,  we'll  not 
quarrel  this  time,  only  don't  do  it  again,  you  know,  or 
else " 

She  recovered  herself  and  laughed.  Her  voice  had  a 
silvery  ring,  and  he  thought  it  was  an  enchanting  smile 
that  played  upon  her  face.     They  resumed  their  walk. 

"  And  now  about  to-night.  You  have  had  a  success,  of 
course." 

"  Why  of  course  ?  " 

"  Because  I  always  knew  you  must  have." 

She  was  proud  and  happy.  He  began  to  be  grave  and 
severe. 

"  But  the  drawing-room  after  dinner  is  no  proper  scene 
for  your  talents.  The  audience  is  not  in  the  right  place  or 
the  right  mood.  Guests  and  auditors— their  duties  clash. 
Beside.s,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  art  is  a  dark  continent  to 
people  like  these." 

"  Tliey  were  kind  to  me,  at  all  events,"  said  Glory. 

"  To-night,  yes.  The  last  new  man— the  last  new  mon- 
key  " 

She  was  laughing  again  and  swinging  along  on  his  arm 
as  if  her  feet  hardly  t<nu;hed  the  ground. 
"  What  is  the  matter  with  you  ?  " 


THE  RELIGIOUS  LIFE.  257 

"Nothing- ;  I  am  only  thinking-  how  polite  you  ai'e,"  and 
then  they  looked  at  each  other  again  and  lavighed  together. 

The  mild  radiance  of  the  stars  was  dying  into  the  bright- 
er light  of  the  moon.  A  bird  somewhere  in  the  dark  trees 
below  had  mistaken  the  moonlight  for  the  dawn,  and  was 
making  its  early  call.  The  clock  at  Westminster  was  strik- 
ing eleven,  and  there  was  the  deep  rumble  of  traffic  from 
the  unseen  streets  round  about. 

"  How  beautiful !  "  said  Glory.  "  It's  hard  to  believe  that 
this  can  be  the  same  London  that  is  so  full  of  casinos  and 
clubs  and — monasteries." 

"Why,  what  does  a  girl  like  you  know  about  such 
places  ? " 

She  had  dropped  his  arm  and  was  looking  over  the  bal- 
cony. The  sound  of  voices  came  from  the  red  windows 
behind  them.  Then  the  soloist  began  to  sing  again.  His 
second  ballad  was  the  Erl  King : 

Du  liebes  Kind,  komm'  geh'  mit  mir ! 
Gar  schone  Spiele  spiel'  ich  mit  dir. 

"  Any  news  of  John  Storm  ?  "  said  Drake. 

"Not  that  I  know  of." 

"  I  wonder  if  you  would  like  hina  to  come  out  again — 
now  ? " 

"  I  wonder  !  " 

At  that  moment  there  was  a  step  behind  them,  and 
a  soft  voice  said,  "  I  want  you  to  introduce  me,  Mr. 
Drake." 

It  was  a  lady  of  eight  or  nine  and  twenty,  wearing  short 
hair  brushed  upwai'd  and  backward  in  the  manner  of  a 
man. 

"  Ah,  Rosa — Miss  Rosa  Macquarrie,"  said  Drake.  "  Rosa 
is  a  journalist,  and  a  great  friend  of  mine,  Grlory.  If  you 
want  fame,  she  keeps  some  of  the  keys  of  it,  and  if  you  want 
friendship But  I'll  leave  you  together." 

"  My  dear,"  said  the  lady,  "  I  want  you  to  let  me  know 
you." 

"But  I've  seen  you  before — and  spoken  to  you,"  said 
Glory. 

"  Why,  where  ?  " 


25 S  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

Glory  was  laughing-  awkwardly.  "Never  mind  now! 
Some  other  time  perhaps." 

"  The  people  inside  are  raving  about  your  voice.  '  Where 
does  it  come  from?'  they  are  saying — 'from  a  palace  or 
Ratcliffe  Highway  ?'  But  I  think  I  know.  It  comes  from 
your  heart,  my  dear.  You  have  lived  and  loved  and  suf- 
fered— and  so  have  I.  Here  we  are  in  our  smart  frocks, 
dear,  but  we  belong  to  another  world  altogether  and  are  the 
only  working  women  in  the  company.  Perhaps  I  can  help 
you  a  little,  and  you  have  helped  me  already.  I  may  know 
you,  may  I  not  ?  " 

There  was  a  deep  light  in  Glory's  eyes  and  a  momentary 
quiver  of  her  eyelids.  Then  without  a  word  she  put  her 
arms  about  Rosa's  neck  and  kissed  her. 

"  I  was  sure  of  you,"  said  Rosa.  Her  voice  was  low  and 
husky.  "  Your  name  is  Glory,  isn't  it  ?  It  wasn't  for  noth- 
ing you  were  given  that  name.     God  gave  it  you  !  " 

The  party  was  breaking  up  and  Koenig  came  for  "  his 
star."  "  I  vill  give  you  an  engagement  for  one,  two,  tree 
year,  upon  my  vord  I  vill,"  he  said  as  they  went  downstairs. 
While  the  butler  took  him  back  to  the  library  to  sign  his 
receipt  and  receive  his  cheque.  Glory  stood  waiting  by  the 
billiard  table  in  tlie  hall  and  Drake  and  Lord  Robert  stepped 
up  to  her. 

"  Until  when  ? "  said  Drake  with  a  smile,  but  Glory  pre- 
tended not  to  understand  him.  "  I  dare  say  you  thought 
me  cynical  to-night,  Glory.  I  only  meant  that  if  you  are 
to  follow  this  profession  I  want  you  to  make  the  best  of  it. 
Why  not  look  for  a  wider  scene  ?  Why  not  go  directly  to 
the  public  ? " 

"  But  de  lady  is  engaged  to  me  for  tree  year,"  said  Koe- 
nig, coming  up. 

Drake  looked  at  Glory,  who  shook  her  head,  and  then 
Koenig  made  an  effort  at  explanation.  It  was  an  under- 
stood thing.  He  had  taught  her,  taken  her  into  his  house, 
found  her  in  a  Sunday 

But  Drake  interrupted  him.  If  they  could  help  Miss 
Quayle  to  a  better  market  for  her  genius  Mi\  Koenig  need 
be  no  loser  by  the  change.  Then  Koenig  was  pacified,  and 
Drake  handed  Glory  down  to  a  cab. 


THE  RELIGIOUS  LIFE.  259 

"  We're  good  friends  again,  aren't  we  ?  "  he  said,  touch- 
ing her  hand  liglitly. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered. 

There  was  a  letter  from  Aunt  Rachel  waiting  for  her  at 
the  Priory.  Aunt  Anna  didn't  like  these  frequent  changes, 
and  she  had  no  faith  in  music  or  musicians  either,  but 
the  Parson  thought  Anna  too  censorious,  and  as  for  Mr. 
Koenig's  Sunday  evening  companies,  he  had  no  doubt  they 
were  of  Germans  chiefly,  and  that  they  came  to  talk  of  Mar- 
tin Luther  and  to  sing  his  hymn.  Sorry  to  say  his  infirmi- 
ties were  increasing  ;  the  burden  of  his  years  was  upon  him, 
and  he  was  looking  feeble  and  old. 

Glory  slept  little  that  night.  On  going  to  her  room  she 
threw  up  the  window  and  sat  in  front  of  it,  that  the  soft 
night  breeze  might  play  on  her  hot  lips  and  cheeks.  The 
moon  was  high  and  the  garden  was  slumbering  under  its 
gentle  light.  Everything  around  was  hushed,  and  there  was 
no  sound  anywhere  except  the  far-off  rumble  of  the  great 
city,  as  of  the  wind  in  distant  trees.  She  was  thinking  of  a 
question  which  Drake  had  put  to  her. 

"  I  wonder  if  I  should  ?"  she  murmured. 

And  through  the  silence  there  was  the  unheard  melody 
of  the  German  song  : 

Du  liebes  Kind,  komm'  geh'  mit  mir ! 
Gar  schone  Spiele  spiel'  ich  mit  dir. 


XIX. 

"The  Priory — May  Day. 
"  Dear  Auntie  Eachel  :  The  great  evening  is  over  I 
Such  dresses,  such  diamonds — you  never  saw  the  like !  The 
smart  folks  are  just  like  other  human  beings,  and  I  was  not 
the  tiniest  bit  afraid  of  them.  My  own  part  of  the  pro- 
gramme went  off  pretty  well,  I  think.  Mr.  Koenig  had 
arranged  the  harmonies  and  accompaniments  of  some  of 
our  old  Manx  songs,  so  I  sang  Mylecharaine,  and  they  lis- 
tened and  clapped,  and  then  Ny  Kiree  fo  Niaghtey,  and  they 
cried  (and  so  did  I),  and  then  I  imitated  some  work-girls 


260 


THE  CHRISTIAN. 


singing  in  the  streets,  and  they  laughed  and  laughed  until  I 
laughed  too,  and  then  they  laughed  because  I  was  laughing, 
and  we  all  laughed  togetlier.  It  was  over  and  done  before 
I  knew  where  I  was,  and  everybody  was  covering  me  with 
—  vv'ell,  no.  not  kisses,  as  grandfather  used  to  do,  but  the 
society  equivalent— ices  and  .iellies— which  the  gentlemen 
were  rushing  about  wildly  to  get  for  me. 

"  But  all  this  is  as  nothing  compared  to  what  is.  to  happen 
next.  I  mustn't  whisper  a  word  about  it  yet,  so  false  face 
must  hide  what  the  false  heart  doth  know.  You'll  have  to 
forgive  me  if  I  succeed,  for  nothing  is  wicked  in  this  world 
except  failure,  you  know,  and  a  little  sin  must  be  a  great 
virtue  if  it  has  grown  to  be  big  enough,  you  see.  There ! 
How  sagacious  of  me  !  You  didn't  know  what  a  jjliilosopher 
you  had  in  the  family,  did  you,  my  dears  ? 

"  It  is  to  be  on  the  24th  of  May.  That  will  be  the  Queen's 
bix'thday  over  again  ;  and  when  I  think  of  all  that  has  hap- 
pened since  the  last  one  I  feel  as  romantic  as  a  schoolgirl  and 
as  sentimental  as  a  nursery  maid.  Natui'ally  I  am  in  a  fear- 
ful flurry  over  the  whole  affair,  and,  to  tell  the  truth,  I  have 
hied  me  to  the  weird  sisters  on  the  subject — that  is  to  say,  I 
have  been  to  a  fortune-teller,  and  sj^ent  a  'goolden '  half- 
sovereign  on  the  creature  at  one  fell  swoop.  But  she  pre- 
dicts wonderful  things  for  me,  so  I  am  satisfied.  The  news- 
papers are  to  blaze  with  my  name ;  I  am  to  have  a  dazzling 
success  and  become  the  idol  of  the  hour — all  of  which  is  de- 
lightful and  entrancing,  and  quite  reasonable  at  the  money. 
Grandfather  will  reprove  me  for  tempting  Providence,  and, 
of  course,  John  Storm,  if  he  knew  it  would  say  that  I 
shouldn't  do  such  things  under  any  circumstances ;  yet  to 
tell  me  I  oughtn't  to  do  this  and  I  oughtn't  to  do  that  is  like 
saying  I  oughtn't  to  have  red  hair  and  I  oughtn't  to  catch 
the  measles.  I  can't  help  it !  I  can't  help  it !  so  what's  the 
good  of  breiiking  one's  heart  about  it  ? 

"  But  I  liadn't  got  to  wait  for  Hecate  et  cie  for  what  re- 
lated to  the  news])a])ers.  You  must  know,  dear  Aunt  Rachel, 
that  I  did  meet  Mr.  Drake  at  the  house  of  the  Home  Secre- 
tary, afld  he  introduced  me  to  a  Miss  Rosa  Macquarrie,  who 
is  no  longer  very  young  or  beautiful,  but  a  dear  for  all  that! 
and  she,  being  a  journalist,  has  bruited  my  praises  abroad, 


THE  RELIGIOUS  LIFE.  261 

with  the  result  that  all  the  world  is  ringing'  with  my  virtues. 
Listen,  all  men  and  women,  while  I  sound  mine  own  glory 
out  of  a  column  as  long  as  the  Duke  of  York's  : 

" '  She  is  young  and  tall,  and  has  auburn  hair '  (always 
thought  it  was  red  myself)  'and  large  gray  eyes,  one  of 
which  seems  at  a  distance  to  be  brown'  (it  squints),  'giving 
an  effect  of  humour  and  coquetry  and  power  rarely,  if  ever, 
seen  in  any  other  face.  .  .  .  Her  voice  has  startling  varieties 
of  tone,  being  at  one  moment  soft,  cooing,  and  liquid,  and 
at  another  wild,  weird,  and  plaintive ;  and  her  face,  which 
is  not  strictly  beautiful '  (oh !),  '  but  striking  and  unforget- 
able,  has  an  extraordinary  range  of  expression.  .  .  .  She 
sings,  recites,  speaks,  laughs,  and  cries  (literally),  and  some 
of  her  selections  are  given  in  a  sort  of  Irish  patois '  (oli,  my 
beloved  Manx  !)  '  that  comes  from  her  girlish  lips  with  charm- 
ing vivacity  and  drollness.'  All  of  which,  though  it  is  quite 
right,  and  no  more  than  my  due,  of  course,  made  me  sob  so 
long  and  loud  that  my  good  little  hippopotamus  came  up- 
stairs to  comfort  me,  but,  finding  me  lying  on  the  floor,  he 
threw  up  his  hands  and  cried, '  Ach  Gott !  I  thought  it  vas  a 
young  lady,  but  vhatever  is  it  ? ' 

"  Yet  wae's  me  !  Sometimes  I  think  how  many  poor  girls 
there  must  be  who  have  never  had  a  chance,  while  I  have  had 
so  many  and  such  glorious  ones  ;  who  can  not  get  anybody  to 
listen  to  them,  while  I  am  so  pampered  and  praised ;  who 
live  in  narrow  alleys  and  sei've  in  little  dark  shops,  where 
men  and  men-things  talk  to  them  as  they  can't  talk  to  their 
sisters  and  wives,  while  I  am  held  aloft  in  an  atmosphere  of 
admiration  and  respect :  who  earn  their  bread  in  clubs  and 
casinos,  where  they  breathe  the  air  of  the  hotbeds  of  hell, 
while  I  am  surrounded  by  everj^thing  that  ennobles  and  re- 
fines !  O  God,  forgive  me  if  I  am  a  vain,  presumptuous  crea- 
ture, laughing  at  everything  and  everybody,  and  sometimes 
forgetting  that  many  a  poor  girl  who  is  being  tossed  about 
in  London  is  just  as  good  as  me,  and  as  clever  and  as  brave. 

"  But  hoot !  '  I  likes  to  be  jolly  and  I  alius  is.'  So  Aunt 
Anna  doesn't  like  this  Wandering  Jew  existence  !  Well, 
do  you  know  I  always  thought  I  should  love  a  gipsy  life. 
It  has  a  sense  of  movement  tiiat  must  be  delightful,  and 
then  I  love  going  fast.     Do  you  remember  the  days  when 


262 


THE  CHRISTIAN. 


'  Csesar '  used  to  take  the  bit  in  his  teeth  and  bolt  with  me ! 
Lo,  there  was  little  me,  astride  on  his  bare  back,  with  noth- 
ing to  trust  to  but  Providence  and  a  pair  of  rope  reins ;  but, 
oh  my!  I  couldn't  breathe  for  excitement  and  delight! 
Dear  old  maddest  of  created  'Caesars.'  I  feel  as  if  I  were 
whacking  at  him  yet !  What  do  you  think  of  me  ?  But  we 
'that  be  females  are  the  same  craythurs  alwis,'  as  old  Chaise 
used  to  say,  and  what  a  woman  is  in  the  cradle  she  continues 
to  be  to  the  end.  There  again!  I  wonder  wlio  told  you 
that,  young  lady ! 

"But  to  tell  you  the  truth  at  last,  dear  Aunt  Rachel, 
there  is  something  I  have  kept  back  until  now,  because  I 
couldn  t  bear  tlie  thought  of  any  of  you  being  anxious  on 
my  account,  especially  grandfather,  who  thinks  of  Glory  so 
much  too  often  as  things  are.  Can't  you  guess  what  it  is  ? 
I  couldn't  help  taking  up  my  life  of  Wandering  Jew,  be- 
cause I  was  dismissed  from  the  hospital !  Didn't  you  under- 
stand that,  my  dears  ?  I  thought  I  was  telling  you  over  and 
over  again.  Yes,  dismissed  as  unfit  to  be  a  nurse,  and  so  I 
was,  according  to  the  order  of  the  institution  first,  and 
human  love  and  pity  last.  But  all's  well  that  ends  well, 
you  know,  and  now  that  my  wanderings  seem  to  be  over 
and  I  am  in  my  right  place  at  length,  I  feel  like  one  who  is 
coming  out  of  a  long  imprisonment,  a  great  peril,  a  dark- 
ness deeper  even  than  John  Storm's  cell.  And  if  I  ever  be- 
come a  famous  woman,  and  good  men  will  listen  to  me,  I 
will  tell  them  to  be  tender  and  merciful  to  poor  girls  who 
are  trying  to  live  in  London  and  be  good  and  strong,  and 
that  the  true  chivalry  is  to  band  themselves  together  against 
tlie  other  men  who  are  selfish  and  cruel  and  impure.  Oh, 
this  great,  glorious,  devilish,  divine  London  !  It  must  stand 
to  the  human  world  as  the  seething,  boiling,  bubbling  watei's 
of  Niagara  do  to  the  world  of  Nature.  Either  a  girl  lioats 
over  its  rapid.s  like  a  boat,  and  in  that  case  she  draws  lier 
breath  and  thanks  God,  or  she  is  tossed  into  its  whirlpool 
like  a  dead  body  and  goes  round  and  round  until  she  finds 
the  vortex  and  is  swallowed  up  ! 

"  There !  I  have  blown  off  my  steam,  and  now  to  busi- 
ness. Mr.  Drake  is  to  give  a  lunclieon  party  in  his  rooms 
on  tlie  twenty-fourth,  in  honour  of  my  experiment,  but  the 


THE  RELIGIOUS  LIFE.  263 

great  event  itself  will  not  come  ofp  until  nearly  half-past 
nine  that  night.  By  that  time  the  .sun  will  have  set  over 
the  hack  of  the  sea  at  Peel,  the  blackhird  will  have  given 
you  his  last '  guy-smook,'  and  all  the  world  will  be  dropping 
asleep.  Now,  if  you'll  only  remember  to  say  just  then, '  God 
bless  Glory ! '  I'll  feel  strong  and  big  and  brave. 

"  Your  poor,  silly,  sentimental  girlie,  Glory." 


XX. 

Some  weeks  had  passed,  and  it  was  the  morning  of  the 
last  day  of  John  Storm's  residence  at  Bishopsgate  Street. 
After  calling  the  Brotherhood,  the  Father  had  entered 
John's  room  and  was  resting  on  the  end  of  the  bed. 

"  You  are  quite  determined  to  leave  us  ?  " 

"Quite  determined,  Father." 

The  Father  sighed  deeply,  and  said  in  broken  sentences : 
"  Our  house  is  passing  through  terrible  trials,  my  son.  Per- 
haps w^e  did  wrong  to  come  here.  There  is  no  cross  in  our 
foundations,  and  we  have  built  on  a  worldly  footing.  '  Un- 
less the  Lord  build  the  house '    It  was  good  of  you  to 

delay  the  execution  of  your  purpose,  but  now  that  the  time 
has  come — I  had  set  my  heart  on  you,  my  son.  I  am  an 
old  man  now,  and  something  of  the  affection  of  the  natural 
father " 

"  Father,  if  you  only  knew " 

"  Yes,  yes  ;  I  know,  I  know.  You  have  suffered,  and  it 
is  not  for  me  to  reproach  you.  The  novitiate  has  its  great 
joys,  but  it  has  its  great  trials  also.  Self  has  to  be  got  rid  of, 
faith  has  to  be  exerted,  obedience  has  to  be  learned,  and, 
above  all,  the  heart  has  to  be  detached  from  its  idols  in  the 
world — a  devoted  mother,  it  may  bi  ;  a  dear  sister ;  perhaps 
a  dearer  one  still." 

Thei^e  was  silence  for  a  moment.  John's  head  was  down  ; 
he  could  not  sjieak. 

"That  you  wish  to  return  to  the  world  only  shows  that 
you  came  before  you  heard  the  call  of  God.  Some  other 
voice  seemed  to  speak  to  you,  and  you  listened  and  thought 
it  was  God's  voice.    But  God's  voice  will  come  to  you  yet, 


264  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

and  you  will  hear  it  and   answer  it  and  not  another ■ 

Have  you  anywhere  to  go  to  when  you  leave  this  house  ? " 

"  Yes,  the  home  of  a  good  woman.  I  have  written  to  her 
— I  think  she  will  receive  me." 

"  All  that  you  brought  with  you  will  be  retui^ned,  and  if 
you  want  money " 

"  No,  I  came  to  you  as  a  beggar — let  me  leave  you  as  a 
beggar  too." 

"  There  is  one  thing  more,  my  son." 

"  What  is  it,  Father  ?  " 

The  old  man's  voice  was  scarcely  audible.  "  You  ai-e 
breaking  obedience  by  leaving  us  before  the  end  of  your 
novitiate,  and  the  community  must  separate  itself  from  you, 
though  you  are  only  a  novice,  as  from  one  who  has  violated 
his  vow  and  cast  himself  off  from  gi'ace.  This  will  have  to 
be  done  before  you  cross  our  threshold.  It  is  our  duty  to 
the  Brotherhood — it  is  also  our  duty  to  God.  You  under- 
stand that  ? " 

"  Yes." 

"  It  will  be  in  the  church,  a  few  minutes  before  midday 
service." 

The  Father  rose  to  go.     "  Then  that  is  all  ?  " 

"  That  is  all." 

The  Father's  voice  was  breaking.  "Good-bye,  my 
son." 

"  Good-bye,  Father,  and  God  forgive  me  ! " 

A  leather  trunk  which  John  had  brought  with  him  on 
the  day  he  came  to  the  Brotherhood  Avas  returned  to  his 
room,  containing  the  clothes  he  had  worn  in  the  outer  world, 
as  well  as  his  purse  and  watch  and  other  belongings.  He 
dressed  himself  in  his  habit  as  a  clergyman,  and  put  the 
cassock  of  the  society  over  it,  for  he  knew  that  to  remove 
tliat  must  be  part  of  the  ordeal  of  his  expulsion.  Then  the 
bell  rang  for  breakfast,  and  he  went  down  to  the  refectory. 

The  brothers  received  him  in  silence,  hardly  looking  up 
as  he  entered,  though  by  their  furtive  glances  he  could 
plainly  see  that  he  was  the  only  subject  that  occupied  their 
thouglits.  When  the  meal  was  over  he  tried  to  mingle 
among  them,  that  he  might  say  farewell  to  as  many  as  were 
willing  that  he  should  do  so.     Some  gave  him  their  hands 


THE  RELIGIOUS  LIFE.  265 

with  prompt  good  will,  some  avoided  him,  some  turned  their 
backs  upon  him  altogether. 

But  if  his  reception  in  the  refectory  was  chilling,  his  wel- 
come in  the  courtyard  was  warm  enough.  At  the  first  sound 
of  his  footstep  on  the  paved  way  the  dog  came  from  his 
quarters  under  the  sycamore.  One  moment  the  creature 
stood  and  looked  at  him  with  its  sad  and  bloodshot  eyes ; 
then,  with  a  bound,  it  threw  its  fore  paws  on  his  breast,  and 
then  plunged  around  him  and  uttered  deep  bays  that  were 
like  the  roar  of  thunder. 

He  sat  on  the  seat  and  caressed  the  dog,  and  his  heart 
grew  full  and  happy.  The  morning  was  bright  with  sun- 
shine, the  air  was  fragrant  with  the  leafage  of  spring,  and 
birds  were  singing  and  rejoicing  in  the  tree. 

Presently  Brother  Andrew  came  and  sat  beside  him.  The 
lay  brother,  like  a  human  dog,  had  been  following  him  about 
all  the  morning,  and  now  in  his  feeble  way  he  began  to  talk 
of  his  mother,  and  to  wonder  if  John  would  ever  see  her. 
Her  name  was  Pincher,  and  she  was  a  good  woman.  She 
lived  in  Crook  Lane,  Crown  Street,  Soho,  and  kept  house 
for  his  brother,  who  was  a  pawnbroker.  But  his  brother, 
poor  fellow !  was  much  given  to  drink,  and  perhaps  that 
had  been  a  reason  why  he  himself  had  left  home.  John 
promised  to  call  on  her,  and  then  Brother  Andrew  began  to 
cry.  The  sprawling  features  of  the  great  fellow  were  almost 
laughable  to  look  upon. 

The  bell  rang  for  Terce.  While  the  brothers  were  at 
prayers,  John  took  his  last  look  over  the  house.  With  the 
dog  at  his  heels— the  old  thing  seemed  determined  to  lose 
sight  of  him  no  more— he  passed  slowly  through  the  hall 
and  into  the  community  room  and  up  the  stairs  and  down 
the  top  corridor.  He  looked  again  at  every  inscription  on 
the  wall,  though  he  knew  them  all  by  heart  and  had  read 
them  a  hundred  times.  When  he  came  to  his  own  cell  he 
was  touched  by  a  strange  tenderness.  Place  where  he  had 
thought  so  much,  prayed  so  much,  suffered  so  much— it  was 
dear  to  him,  after  all !  He  went  up  on  to  the  tower.  How 
often  he  had  been  drawn  there  as  by  a  devilish  fascination ! 
The  great  city  looked  innocent  enough  now  under  its  mantle 
of  sunlight,  dottea  over  with  gi'een,  but  how  dense,  how  dif- 
18 


2(56  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

flcult !  Then  the  bell  rang  for  midday  service,  though  it 
was  not  yet  noon,  and  he  went  down  to  the  hall.  The 
brothers  were  there  preparing  to  go  into  the  church.  The 
order  of  the  procession  was  the  same  as  on  the  day  of  his 
dedication,  except  that  Brother  Paul  was  no  longer  with 
them — Brother  Andrew  going  first  with  the  cross,  then  the 
lay  brothers,  then  the  religious,  then  the  Father,  and  John 
Storm  last  of  all. 

Though  the  courtyard  was  full  of  sunshine,  the  church 
looked  dark  and  gloomy.  Curtains  were  drawn  across  the 
windows,  and  the  altar  was  draped  as  for  a  funeral.  As 
soon  as  the  brothers  had  taken  their  places  in  the  choir  the 
Father  stood  on  the  altar  steps  and  said  : 

"  If  any  member  of  this  community  has  one  unfaithful 
thought  of  going  back  to  the  outer  world,  I  charge  him  to 
come  to  this  altar  now.  But  woe  to  him  through  whom  the 
offence  cometh  !  Woe  to  him  who  turns  back  after  taking 
up  the  golden  plough  !  " 

John  was  kneeling  in  his  place  in  the  second  row  of  the 
choir.  The  eyes  of  the  community  were  upon  him.  He 
hesitated  a  moment,  then  rose  and  stepped  up  to  the  altar. 

"  My  son,"  said  the  Father,  "  it  is  not  yet  too  late.  I  see 
your  fate  as  plainly  as  I  see  you  now.  Shall  I  tell  you  what 
it  is  ?  Can  you  bear  to  hear  it  ?  I  see  you  going  out  into  a 
world  which  has  nothing  to  satisfy  the  cravings  of  your 
soul.  I  see  you  foredoomed  to  failure  and  suffering  and 
despair.  I  see  you  coming  back  to  us  within  a  year  with  a 
broken  and  bleeding  heart.  I  see  you  taking  the  vows  of 
lifelong  consecration.     Can  you  face  that  future  ?  " 

"I  must." 

The  Father  drew  a  long  breath.  "  It  is  inevitable,"  he 
said  ;  and,  taking  a  book  from  the  altar,  he  read  the  awful 
service  of  the  degradation  : 

'"By  the  authority  of  God  Almighty,  Father  (»J*),  Son, 
and  Holy  Ghost,  and  by  our  otvn  authority,  ive,  the  mem- 
bers of  the  Society  of  the  Holy  Gethsemane,  do  take  away 
from  thee  the  habit  of  our  Order,  and  depose  and  de- 
grade and  deprive  thee  of  all  rights  and  privileges  in  the 
spiritual  goods  and  prayers  which,  by  the  grace  of  God, 
are  done  among  usy 


THE  RELIGIOUS  LIFE.  267 

"Amen  !     Amen  !  "  said  the  brothers. 

During  the  reading  of  the  service  John  had  been  kneel- 
ing. The  Father  motioned  to  him  to  rise,  and  proceeded  to 
remove  the  cord  with  which  he  had  bound  him  at  his  con- 
secration. When  this  was  done,  he  signalled  to  Brother 
Andrew  to  take  off  the  cassock. 

The  bell  was  tolled.  The  Father  dropped  on  his  knees. 
The  brothers,  hoarse  and  husky,  began  to  sing  In  exifu 
Israel  de  ^gypto.  Their  heads  were  down,  their  voices 
seemed  to  come  up  out  of  tlie  earth. 

It  was  all  over  now.  John  Storm  turned  about,  hardly- 
able  to  see  his  way.  Brother  Andrew  went  before  liini  to 
open  the  door  of  the  sacristy.  The  lay  brother  was  crying 
audibly. 

The  sun  was  still  shining  in  the  courtyard,  and  the  birds 
were  still  singing  and  rejoicing.  The  first  thing  of  which 
John  was  conscious  was  that  the  dog  was  licking  his  rigid 
fingers. 

A  moment  later  he  was  in  the  little  covered  passage  to 
the  street,  and  Brother  Andrew  was  opening  the  iron  gate. 

"■  Good-bye,  my  lad  ! " 

He  stretched  out  his  hand,  then  remembered  that  he  was 
an  excommunicated  man,  and  tried  to  draw  it  back  ;  but  the 
lay  brother  had  snatched  at  it  and  lifted  it  to  his  lips. 

The  dog  was  following  him  into  the  street. 

"  Go  back,  old  friend." 

He  patted  the  old  creature  on  the  head,  and  Brother 
Andrew  laid  hold  of  it  by  the  loose  skin  at  its  neck.  a. 
hansom  was  waiting  for  him  with  his  trunk  on  the  top. 

"  Victoi'ia  Square,  Westminster,"  he  called.  The  cab  was 
moving  off,  when  there  was  a  growl  and  a  Im^ch — the  dog 
had  broken  away  and  was  running  after  it. 

How  crowded  the  streets  were !  How  deafening  was  the 
traffic !  The  church  bell  was  ringing  for  midday  service. 
What  a  thin  tinkle  it  made  out  there,  yet  how  deep  was  its 
boom  within  !  Stock  Exchange  men  with  their  leisurely 
activity  were  going  in  by  their  seven  doorways  to  their 
great  market  place  in  Capel  Court. 

He  began  to  feel  a  boundless  relief.  How  his  heart  was 
beating !     With  what  a  strange  and  deep  emotion  he  found 


2gg  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

himself  once  more  in  tlie  world  I  Driving  in  the  dense  and 
devious  thoroughfares  was  like  sailing  on  a  cross  sea  outside 
a  difficult  headland.  He  could  smell  the  brine  and  feel  the 
Hick  of  the  foam  on  his  lips  and  cheeks.  It  was  liberty,  it 
was  life ! 

Feeling  anxious  about  the  dog,  he  drew  up  the  cab  for  a 
moment.  °  The  faithful  creature  was  running  under  the 
driver's  seat.  Before  the  cab  could  start  again  a  line  of 
sandwich  men  had  passed  in  front  of  it.  Their  boards  con- 
tained a  single  word.    The  word  was  "  Gloria." 

He  saw  it,  yet  it  barely  arrested  his  consciousness.  Some- 
how it  seemed  like  an  echo  from  the  existence  he  had  left 
behind. 

The  noises  of  life  were  as  wine  in  his  veins  now.  He 
was  burning  with  impatience  to  overtake  his  arreai'S  of 
knowledge,  to  see  what  the  world  had  gone  through  in  his 
absence.  Leaning  over  the  door  of  the  hansom,  he  read  the 
names  of  the  sti-eets  and  the  signs  over  the  shops,  and  tried 
to  identify  the  houses  which  had  been  rebuilt  and  the  thor- 
oughfares which  had  been  altered.  But  the  past  was  the 
past,  and  the  clock  would  turn  back  for  no  man.  These 
men  and  women  in  the  streets  knew  all  that  had  happened. 
The  poorest  beggar  on  the  pavement  knew  more  than  he 
did.  Nearly  a  year  of  his  life  was  gone — in  prayer,  in  pen- 
ance, in  fasting,  in  visions,  in  dreams — dropped  out,  left 
behind,  and  lost  forever. 

Going  by  the  Bank,  the  cab  drew  up  again  to  allow  a  line 
of  omnibuses  to  pass  into  Cheapside.  Every  omnibus  had 
its  board  for  advertisements,  and  nearly  every  board  con- 
tained the  word  he  had  seen  before — "  Gloria." 

"  Only  the  name  of  some  music-hall  singer,"  he  told  him- 
self. But  the  name  had  begun  to  trouble  him.  It  had 
stirred  the  fibres  of  memory,  and  made  him  think  of  the 
past— of  his  yacht,  of  Peel,  of  his  father,  and  finally  of  Glory 
—and  again  of  Glory— and  yet  again  of  Glory. 

He  saw  that  flags  were  flying  on  the  Mansion  House  and 
on  the  Bank,  and,  pushing  up  the  trap  of  the  hansom,  he 
asked  if  anything  unusual  wi\.s  going  on. 

"  Lawd,  down't  ye  know  what  day  it  is  terday,  sir?  It's 
the  dear  ole  laidy's  birthday.     That's  why  all  the  wimming's 


THE  RELIGIOUS  LIFE.  269 

going  abart  in  their  penny  carridges.  Been  through  a  hill- 
ness,  sir  ?" 

"  Yes,  something  of  that  sort." 

"  Thort  so,  sir." 

When  the  cab  started  afresh  he  began  to  tell  himself 
what  he  was  going  to  do  in  the  future.  He  was  going  to 
woi'k  among  the  poor  and  the  outcast,  the  oj^pressed  and  the 
fallen.  He  was  going  to  search  for  them  and  find  them  in 
their  haunts  of  sin  and  misery.  Nothing  was  to  be  too  mean 
for  him.  Nothing  was  to  be  common  or  unclean.  No  matter 
about  his  own  good  name !  No  matter  if  he  was  only  one 
man  in  a  million  !  The  kingdom  of  heaven  was  like  a  grain 
of  mustard  seed. 

When  he  came  within  sight  of  St.  Paul's  the  golden 
cross  on  the  dome  was  flashing  like  a  fiery  finger  in  the 
blaze  of  the  midday  sun.  That  was  the  true  ensign  !  That 
was  the  great  example !  It  was  a  monstrous  and  wicked 
fallacy,  a  gloomy  and  narrow  formula,  that  religion  had 
to  do  with  the  affairs  of  the  other  world  only.  Work  was 
religion  !  Work  was  prayer !  Work  was  praise  !  Work 
was  the  love  of  man  and  the  glory  of  God ! 

Glorious  gospel  I    Great  and  deathless  symbol ! 


THIRD   BOOK. 
THE  DEVI  US  ACRE. 


I. 

Behind  Buckingham  Palace  there  is  a  little  square  of 
modest  houses  standing  hack  from  the  tide  of  traffic  and 
nearly  always  as  quiet  as  a  cloister.  At  one  angle  of  the 
square  is  a  house  somewhat  larger  than  the  rest  but  just  as 
.'limple  and  unassuming.  In  the  dining-room  of  this  house 
an  elderly  lady  was  sitting  down  to  lunch  alone,  with  the 
covers  laid  for  another  at  the  opposite  end  of  the  table. 

"  Hae  ye  the  spare  room  ready,  Emma? " 

"  Yes,  ma'am,"  said  the  maid. 

"  And  the  sheets  done  airing  ?  And  baith  the  pillows  ? 
And  the  pillow-slips — and  everything  finished  ?  " 

The  maid  was  answering  "  Yes  "  to  each  of  these  ques- 
tions when  a  hansom  cab  came  rattling  up  to  the  front  of 
the  house,  and  the  old  lady  leaped  out  of  her  seat. 

"  It's  himself ! "  she  cried,  and  she  ran  like  a  girl  to  the 
hall. 

The  door  had  been  opened  before  she  got  there,  and  a 
deep  voice  was  saying,  "  Is  Mrs.  Callender " 

"  It's  John  !  My  gracious  !  It's  John  Storm  ! "  the  old 
woman  cried,  and  she  lifted  both  hands  as  if  to  fling  herself 
into  his  arms. 

"  My  guidness,  laddie,  but  you  gave  puir  auld  Jane  sic  a 
start !  Expected  ye  ?  To  be  sure  we  expected  you,  and  ter- 
ribly thraug  we've  been  all  morning  making  ready.  Only 
my  daft  auld  brain  must  have  been  a  wee  ajee.  But,"  smil- 
ing tbrough  her  tears,  "has  a  body  never  a  cheek,  that  you 
must  be  kissing  at  her  hand  ?    And  is  this  your  dog  ?  "  look- 

270 


THE  DEVIL'S  ACRE.  271 

ing  down  at  the  bloodhound.  "  Welcome  ?  Why,  of  coux'se 
it's  welcome.  What  was  I  saying'  the  day,  Emma  ?  '  I'd 
like  fine  to  have  a  dog,'  didn't  I  ?  and  here  it  is  to  our  hand. 
— Awa'  wi'  ye,  James,  man,  and  show  Mr.  Storm  to  his 
room,  and  then  find  a  bed  for  the  creature  somewhere. 
Letters  for  ye,  laddie  ?  Letters  eneugh,  and  you'll  find 
them  on  the  table  upstairs.  Only,  mind  ye,  the  lunch  is 
ready,  and  your  fish  is  getting  cold." 

John  Storm  opened  his  letters  in  his  room.  One  of  them 
was  from  his  uncle,  the  Prime  Minister  :  "  I  rejoice  to  hear 
of  your  most  sensible  resolution.  Come  and  dine  with  me 
at  Downing  Street  this  day  week  at  seven  o'clock.  I  have 
much  to  say  and  much  to  ask,  and  I  expect  to  be  quite 
alone." 

Another  was  from  his  father:  "I  am  not  surprised  at 
your  intelligence,  but  if  anything  could  exceed  the  folly  of 
going  into  a  monastery  it  is  the  imbecility  of  coming  out  of 
it.  The  former  appears  to  be  a  subject  of  common  talk  in 
this  island  already,  and  no  doubt  the  latter  will  soon  be 
so." 

John  flinched  as  at  a  cut  across  the  face  and  then  smiled 
a  smile  of  relief.  Apparently  Glory  was  writing  home 
wherever  she  was,  and  there  was  good  news  in  that,  at  all 
events.     He  went  downstairs. 

"  Come  your  ways  in,  laddie,  and  let  me  look  at  ye  again. 
Man.  but  your  face  is  pale  and  your  bonnie  eyes  are  that 
sunken.  But  sit  ye  down  and  eat.  They've  been  starving 
ye,  I'm  thinking,  and  miscalling  it  religion.  It's  eneugh  to 
drive  a  reasonable  body  to  drink.  Carnal  I  am,  laddie,  and 
I  just  want  to  put  soine  flesh  on  your  bones.  Monks  in- 
deed !  And  in  this  age  of  the  world  too !  Little  Jack 
Horners  sitting  in  corners  and  saying, "  Oh,  what  a  good  boy 
am  I ! '" 

John  defended  his  late  brethren.  They  were  holy  men  ; 
they  lived  a  holy  life ;  he  had  not  been  good  enough  for 
their  company.  "  But  I  feel  like  a  sailor  home  from  sea," 
he  said  ;  "  tell  me  what  has  happened." 

"  Births,  marriages,  and  deaths  ?  I  supi^ose  ye're  like 
the  lave  of  the  men,  and  think  nothing  else  matters  to  a 
woman.     But  come   now,   more  chicken  ?      No  ?      A   wee 


272  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

bitty  ?  Aye,  but  ye're  sair  altered,  laddie  !  Weel,  where  can 
a  body  begin  ?  " 

"  The  canon — how  is  he  ? " 

"  Fine  as  fi'pence.  Guid  as  ever  in  the  pulpit  ?  Aye, 
but  it's  a  pity  he  doesna'  bide  there,  for  he's  naething  to  be 
windy  of  when  he  comes  out  of  it.  Deacon  now,  bless  ye, 
or  archdeacon,  and  some  sic  botherment,  and  his  daughter 
is  to  be  married  to  yon  slip  of  a  curate  with  the  rabbit 
mouth  and  the  heather  legs.  Weel,  she  wasna  for  all  mar- 
kets, ye  ken." 

"  And  Mrs.  Macrea  ?  " 

'^  Gone  over  to  the  angels.  Dead  ?  Nae,  ye're  too  ex- 
pecting altogether.  She's  got  religion  though,  and  holds 
missionary  meetings  in  her  drawing-room  of  a  Monday,  and 
gives  lunches  to  actor  folk  of  a  Sunday,  and  now  a  poor 
woman  that's  been  working  for  charity  and  Christianity 
all  her  days  has  no  chance  with  her  anyway." 

"  And  Miss  Macrae  ?  " 

"  Poor  young  leddy,  they're  for  marrying  her  at  last !  Aye, 
to  that  Ure  man,  that  lord  thing  with  the  eyeglass.  I  much 
misdoubt  but  her  heart's  been  somewhere  else,  and  there's 
ane  auld  woman  would  a  hantle  rather  have  heard  tell  of 
her  getting  the  richt  man  than  seeing  the  laddie  bury  him- 
sel'  in  a  monastery.  She's  given  in  at  last  though,  and  it's  to 
be  a  grand  wedding  they're  telling  me.  Some  of  your  Ameri- 
cans are  kittle  cattle — just  the  Jews  of  the  West  seemingly, 
and  they  must  do  everything  splendiferously.  There  are  to 
be  jewels  as  big  as  walnuts,  and  bouquets  five  feet  in  diameter, 
and  a  rope  of  pearls  for  a  necklace,  and  a  rehearsal  of  the 
hale  thing  in  the  church.  Aye,  indeed,  a  rehearsal,  and  the 
'deacon,  honest  man,  in  the  middle  of  the  magnificence." 

John  Storm's  pale  face  was  twitching.  "  And  the  hospi- 
tal," he  said,  "  has  anything  happened  there  ?  " 

"Notliiug." 

"  No  other  case  such  as  the  one " 

"Not  since  yon  poor  bit  lassie." 

"  Thank  God  ! " 

"  It  was  the  first  ill  thing  I  had  heard  tell  of  for  years, 
and  the  nurses  ave  good  women  for  all  that.  High-spirited  ? 
Aye;  but  dear,  bright,  happy  things,  to  think  what  they 


THE  DEVIL'S  ACRE.  273 

have  to  know  and  to  be  present  at !  Lawyers,  doctors,  and 
nurses  see  the  worst  of  human  nature,  and  she'd  be  a  heart- 
less woman  who'd  no  make  allowance  for  them,  poor 
creatures ! " 

John  Storm  had  risen  from  the  table  with  a  flushed  face, 
making  many  excuses.  He  would  step  round  to  the  hospi- 
tal ;  he  had  questions  to  ask  there,  and  it  would  be  a  walk 
after  luncheon. 

"  Do,"  said  Mrs.  Callender,  "  but  remember  dinner  at  six. 
And  hark  ye,  hinny,  this  house  is  to  be  your  hame  until  you 
light  on  a  better  one,  so  just  sleep  saft  in  it  and  wake 
merrily.  And  Jane  Callender  is  to  be  your  auld  auntie 
ixntil  some  ither  body  tak's  ye  frae  her,  and  then  it'll  no  be 
lier  hand  ye'll  be  kissing  for  fear  of  her  wrinkles,  I'm 
thinking." 

The  day  was  bright,  the  sun  was  shining,  and  the  streets 
were  full  of  well-groomed  horses  in  gorgeous  carriages  with 
coachmen  in  splendid  liveries  going  to  the  drawing-room  in 
honour  of  the  royal  birthday.  As  John  went  by  the  palace 
the  approaches  to  it  were  thronged,  the  band  of  the  House- 
hold Cavalry  was  playing  within  the  rails,  and  officers  in 
full-dress  uniform,  members  of  the  diplomatic  service  with 
swords  and  cocked  hats,  and  ladies  in  gorgeous  brocades 
carrying  bouquets  of  oi'chids  and  wearing  tiaras  of  diamonds 
and  large  white  plumes  were  filing  through  the  gate  toward 
the  throne-room. 

The  hospital  looked  strangely  unfamiliar  after  so  short 
an  absence,  and  there  were  new  faces  among  the  nurses 
who  passed  to  and  fro  in  the  corridors.  John  asked  for  the 
matron,  and  was  received  with  constrained  and  distant 
courtesy.  Was  he  well  ?  Quite  well.  They  had  a  resident 
chaplain  now,  and  being  in  priest's  orders  he  had  many  op- 
portunities where  death  was  so  frequent.  Was  he  sure  he 
had  not  been  ill  ?  John  understood — it  was  almost  as  if  he 
had  come  out  of  some  supernatural  existence,  and  people 
looked  at  him  as  if  they  were  afraid. 

"  I  came  to  ask  if  you  could  tell  me  anything  of  Nui*se 
Quayle  ? " 

The  matron  could  tell  him  nothing.  The  girl  had  gone  ; 
they  had  been  compelled  to  part  with  her.    Nothing  serious  ? 


274  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

No,  but  totally  unfit  to  be  a  nurse.  She  had  some  good 
qualities  certainly — cheerfulness,  brightness,  tenderness — 
and  for  sake  of  these,  and  his  own  interest  in  the  girl, 
they  had  put  up  with  inconceivable  rudeness  and  irregu- 
larities. What  had  become  of  her  ?  She  really  could  not 
say.  Nurse  All  worthy  might  know— and  the  matron  took 
up  her  pen. 

John  found  the  ward  Sister  with  the  house-surgeon  at 
the  bed  of  a  patient.  She  was  short,  even  curt,  said  over 
her  shoulder  she  knew  nothing  about  the  girl,  and  then 
turned  back  to  her  work.  As  John  passed  out  of  the  ward 
the  doctor  followed  him  and  hinted  that  perhaps  the  porter 
might  be  able  to  tell  him  something. 

The  porter  was  difficult  at  first,  but  seeing  his  way  clearer 
after  a  while  he  admitted  to  receiving  letters  for  the  nurse 
and  delivering  them  to  her  when  she  called.  That  was  long 
ago,  and  she  had  not  been  there  since  New  Year's  Eve. 
Then  she  had  given  him  a  shilling  and  said  she  would 
trouble  him  no  more. 

John  gave  him  five  shillings  and  asked  if  anybody  ever 
called  for  her.  Yes,  once.  Who  was  it  ?  A  gentleman. 
Had  he  left  his  name  ?  No,  but  he  had  said  he  would  write. 
When  was  that  ?  A  day  or  two  before  she  was  there  the 
last  time. 

Drake  !  Thei'e  could  not  be  a  doubt  of  it.  John  Storm 
looked  at  the  clock.  It  was  3.45.  Then  he  buttoned  his 
coat  and  crossed  the  street  to  the  park  with  his  face  in  the 
direction  of  St.  James's  Street. 

Horatio  Drake  had  given  a  luncheon  in  his  rooms  that 
day  in  honour  of  Glory's  first  public  appearance.  The  per- 
formance was  to  come  off  at  night,  but  in  the  course  of 
the  morning  there  had  been  a  dress  rehearsal  in  the  salon 
of  the  music  hall.  Twenty  men  and  Avomcn,  chiefly  journal- 
ists and  artists,  had  assembled  there  to  get  a  iirst  glimpse  of 
the  debutante,  and  cameras  had  lurked  behind  portieres 
and  in  alcoves  to  catch  her  poses,  her  expressions,  her  fleet- 
ing smiles,  and  humorous  grimaces.  Then  the  company 
had  adjourned  to  Drake's  cliambei-s.  The  luncheon  was 
now  over,  the  last  guest  had  gone,  and  the  host  was  in  his 
dining-room  alone. 


THE   DEVIL'S  ACRE.  275 

Drake  was  standing'  by  tlie  chimney-piece  holding  at 
arm's  length  a  pencil  sketch  of  a  woman's  beautiful  face 
and  lithe  figure.  "  Like  herself — alive  to  the  finger 
tips,"  he  thought,  and  then  he  jiropped  it  against  the  pier- 
glass. 

There  was  a  sound  of  the  oi)ening  and  closing  of  the 
outer  door  downstairs,  and  Lord  Robert  entered  the  room. 
He  looked  heated,  harassed,  and  exhausted.  Shaking  out 
his  perfumed  pocket  handkerchief,  he  mopped  his  forehead, 
drew  a  long  breath,  and  dropped  into  a  chair. 

"  I've  done  it,"  he  said  ;  "  it's  all  over." 

Polly  Love  had  lunched  with  the  company  that  day, 
and  Lord  Robert  had  returned  home  with  her  in  order  to 
break  the  news  of  his  approaching  marriage.  While  the 
girl  had  been  removing  her  hat  and  jacket  he  had  sat  at  the 
piano  and  thumbed  it,  hardly  knowing  how  to  begin.  All 
at  once  he  had  said,  "  Do  you  know,  my  dear,  I'm  to  be 
married  on  Saturday?"  She  had  said  nothing  at  first,  and 
he  had  played  the  piano  furiously.  Heavens,  what  a  frame  of 
mind  to  be  in  !  Why  didn't  the  girl  speak  ?  At  last  he  had 
looked  round  at  her,  and  there  she  stood  grinning,  gasp- 
ing, and  white  as  a  ghost.  Suddenly  she  had  begun  to  cry. 
Good  God,  such  crying  !  Yes,  it  was  all  over.  Everything 
had  been  settled  somehow. 

"  But  I'll  be  in  harder  condition  before  I  tackle  such  a 
job  again." 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment.  Drake  was  leaning  on 
the  mantelpiece,  his  legs  crossed,  and  one  foot  beating  on 
the  hearth-rug.  The  men  were  ashamed,  and  they  began  to 
talk  of  indifferent  things.  Smoke  ?  Don't  mind.  Those 
Indian  cigars  were  good.     Not  bad,  certainly. 

At  length  Drake  said  in  a  different  voice,  "  Cruel  but 
necessary,  Robert — necessary  to  the  woman  who  is  going  to 
be  your  wife,  cruel  to  the  poor  girl  who  has  been." 

Lord  Robert  rose  to  his  feet  impatiently,  stretched  his 
arm,  and  shot  out  his  striped  cuff  and  walked  to  and  fi*o 
across  the  room. 

"  'Pon  my  soul,  I  believe  I  should  have  stuck  to  the 
little  thing  but  for  the  old  girl,  don't  you  know.  She's 
made  such  good  social   running   lately  —  and  then  she's 


276 


THE  CHRISTIAN. 


started  tlii.s  evangelical  craze  too.  No,  Polly  wouldn't  have 
suited  her  book  anyhow." 

Silence  again,  and  then  further  talk  on  indifferent 
things. 

"  Wish  Benson  wouldn't  sweep  the  soda  water  off  the 
table."  "Eing  for  it."  "The  little  thing  really  cares  for 
me,  don't  you  know.  And  it  isn't  my  fault,  is  it  ?  I  had  to 
hedge.  Frank,  dear  boy,  you're  always  taunting  me  with 
the  treadmill  we  have  to  turn  for  the  sake  of  society,  and  so 
forth,  but  with  debts  about  a  man's  neck  like  a  millstone> 
what  could  one  do  ? " 

"  I  don't  mean  that  you're  worse  than  others,  old  fellow, 
or  that  sacrificing  this  one  poor  child  is  going  to  mend  mat- 
ters much." 

"  No,  it  isn't  likely  to  improve  my  style  of  going,  is  it  ? " 

"  But  that  man  John  Storm  was  not  so  far  wrong,  after 
all,  and  for  this  polygamy  of  our  'lavender-glove  tribe'  the 
nation  itself  will  be  overtaken  by  the  judgment  of  God  one 
of  these  days." 

Lord  Robert  broke  into  a  peal  of  derisive  laughter. 
"Go  on,"  he  cried.  "Go  on,  dear  boy  !  It's  funny  to  hear 
you,  though — after  to-day's  proceedings  too  "  ;  and  he  glanced 
signiflcantly  around  the  table. 

Drake  brought  down  his  fist  with  a  thump  on  to  the  man- 
telpiece. "  Hold  your  tongue,  Robert !  How  often  am  I  to 
tell  you  this  is  a  different  thing  entirely?  Because  I  dis- 
cover a  creature  of  genius  and  try  to  help  her  to  the  position 
she  deserves " 

"You  hypocrite,  if  it  had  been  a  man  instead  of  a  charm- 
ing little  woman  with  big  eyes,  don't  you  know " 

But  there  had  been  a  ring  at  the  outer  door,  and  Benson 
came  in  to  say  that  a  clergyman  was  waiting  downstairs. 

"Little  Golightly  again!"  said  Lord  Robert  wearily. 
"  Are  these  everlasting  arrangements  never " 

The  man  stopped  him.  It  was  not  Mi\  Golightly  ;  it  was 
a  stranger ;  would  not  give  his  name  ;  looked  like  a  Catholic 
priest ;  had  been  there  befoi*e,  he  thought. ' 

"  Can  it  be Talk  of  the  devil " 

"  Ask  him  uj),"  said  Drake.  And  while  Drake  bit  his 
lip  and  clinched    his  hands,  and  Lord  Robert  took  up  a 


THE  DEVIL'S  ACRE.  277 

scent  bottle  and  sprayed  himself  with  eau  de  cologne,  they 
saw  a  man  clad  in  the  long  coat  of  a  priest  come  into  the 
room — calm,  grave,  self-possessed,  very  pale,  with  hollow 
and  shaven  cheeks  and  dark  and  sunken  eyes,  which  burned 
with  a  sombre  fire,  and  head  so  closely  cropped  as  to  seem 
to  be  almost  bald. 

John  Storm's  anger  had  cooled.  As  he  crossed  the  park 
the  heat  of  his  soul  had  turned  to  fear,  and  while  he  stood  in 
the  hall  below,  with  an  atmosphere  of  perfume  about  him, 
and  even  a  delicate  sense  of  a  feminine  presence,  his  fear 
had  turned  to  terror.  On  that  account  he  had  refused  to 
send  up  his  name,  and  on  going  up  the  staircase,  lined  with 
prints,  he  had  been  tempted  to  turn  about  and  fly  lest  he 
should  come  upon  Glory  face  to  face.  But  finding  only 
the  two  men  in  the  room  above,  his  courage  came  back  and 
he  hated  himself  for  his  treacherous  thought  of  her. 

"  You  will  forgive  me  for  this  unceremonious  visit,  sir," 
he  said,  addressing  himself  to  Drake. 

Drake  motioned  him  to  be  seated.  He  bowed,  but  con- 
tinued to  .stand. 

"  Your  friend  will  remember  that  I  have  been  here  be- 
fore." t 

Lord  Robert  bent  his  head,  and  went  on  trifling  with  the 
spray. 

"  It  was  a  painful  errand  relating  to  a  girl  who  had  been 
nurse  at  the  hospital.  The  girl  was  nothing  to  me,  but  she 
had  a  companion  who  was  very  much." 

Drake  nodded  and  his  lips  stiffened,  but  he  did  not  speak. 

"  You  are  aware  that  since  then  I  have  been  away  from 
the  hospital.  I  wrote  to  you  on  the  subject ;  you  will  re- 
member that." 

"  Well  ?  "  said  Drake. 

"I  have  only- just  returned,  and  have  come  direct  from 
the  hospital  now." 

"  Well  ? " 

"  I  see  you  know  what  I  mean,  sir.  My  young  friend 
has  gone.     Can  you  tell  me  where  to  find  her  ?  " 

"Sorry  I  can  not,"  said  Drake  coldly,  and  it  stung  him 
to  see  a  look  of  boundless  relief  cross  the  grave  face  in  front 
of  him. 


278 


THE  CHRISTIAN. 


"  Then  you  don't  know " 

"  I  didn't  say  that,"  said  Drake,  and  then  the  lines  of 
pain  came  back. 

"  At  the  request  of  her  people  I  brought  her  up  to  Lon- 
don. Naturally  they  will  look  to  me  for  news  of  her,  and  I 
feel  responsible  for  her  welfare." 

"  If  that  is  so,  you  must  pardon  me  for  saying  you've 
taken  your  duty  lightly,"  said  Drake. 

John  Storm  gripped  the  rail  of  the  chair  in  front  of  him, 
a^d  there  was  silence  for  a  moment. 

"  Whatever  I  may  have  to  blame  myself  with  in  the  past, 
it  would  relieve  me  to  find  her  well  and  happy  and  safe 
from  all  harm." 

"  She  is  well  and  happy,  and  safe  too — I  can  tell  you  that 
much." 

There  was  another  moment  of  silence,  and  then  John 
Storm  said  in  broken  sentences  and  in  a  voice  that  was 
struggling  to  control  itself :  "  I  have  known  her  since  she 

was  a  child,  sir You  can  not  think  how  many  tender 

memories It  is  nearly  a  year  since  I  saw  her,  and  one 

likes  to  see  old  friends  after  an  absence." 

Drake  did  not  speak,  but  he  dropped  his  head,  for  John's 
eyes  had  bpgun  to  fill. 

"  We  were  good  friends  too.  Boy  and  girl  comrades 
almost.  Brotlier  and  sister,  I  should  say,  for  that  was  how 
I  liked  to  think  of  myself — her  elder  brother  bound  to  take 
care  of  her." 

There  was  a  little  trill  of  derisive  laughter  from  the  other 
side  of  the  room,  where  Lord  Robert  had  put  the  spi-ay 
down  noisily  and  turned  to  look  out  into  the  street.  Then 
John  Storm  drew  himself  up  and  said  in  a  firm  voice  : 

"  Gentlemen,  why  should  I  mince  matters  ?  I  will  not 
do  so.  The  girl  we  speak  of  is  more  to  me  than  anybody 
else  in  the  world  besides.  Perhaps  she  was  one  of  the  rea- 
sons why  I  went  into  that  monastery.  Certainly  she  is  the 
reason  I  have  come  out  of  it.  I  have  come  to  find  her.  I 
shall  find  her.  If  she  is  in  difficulty  or  danger  I  intend  to 
save  her.     Will  you  tell  me  where  she  is  ? " 

"  Mr.  Storm,"  said  Drake,  "  I  am  sorry,  very  sorry,  but 
what  you  say  compels  me  to  speak  plainly.    The  lady  is 


THE  DEVIL'S  ACRE.  279 

well  and  safe  and  happy.  If  her  friends  are  anxious  about 
her  she  can  I'eassure  them  for  herself,  and  no  doubt  she  has 
already  done  so.  But  in  the  position  she  occupies  at  present 
you  are  a  dangerous  man.  It  might  not  be  her  wish,  and  it 
would  not  be  to  her  advantage,  to  meet  with  you,  and  I  can 
not  allow  her  to  run  the  risk." 

"  Has  it  come  to  that  ?  Have  you  a  right  to  speak  for 
her,  sir  ? " 

"Perhaps  I  have "  Drake  hesitated,  and  then  said 

with  a  rush,  "  the  right  to  protect  her  against  a  fanatic." 

John  Storm  curbed  himself ;  he  had  been  through  a  long 
schooling.  "Man,  be  honest,"  he  said.  "Either  your  in- 
terest is  good  or  bad,  selfish  or  unselfish.     Which  is  it  ? " 

Drake  made  no  answer. 

"  But  it  would  be  useless  to  bandy  words.  I  didn't  come 
here  to  do  that.     Will  you  tell  me  where  she  is  ?  " 

"No." 

"  Then  it  is  to  be  a  duel  between  us — is  that  so  ?  You  for 
the  girl's  body  and  I  for  her  soul  ?  Very  well,  I  take  your 
challenge." 

There  was  silence  once  more,  and  John  Storm's  eyes 
wandered  about  the  room.  They  fixed  themselves  at  length 
on  the  sketch  by  the  pier-glass. 

"  On  my  former  visit  I  met  with  the  same  reception.  The 
girl  could  take  cai^e  of  herself.  It  was  no  business  of  mine. 
How  that  relation  has  ended  I  do  not  ask.  But  this 
one " 

"  This  one  is  an  entirely  different  matter,"  said  Drake, 
"and  I  will  thank  you  not  to " 

But  John  Storm  was  making  the  sign  of  the  cross  on  his 
breast,  and  saying,  as  one  who  was  uttering  a  prayer,  "  God 
gi*ant  it  is  and  alwaj's  may  be  !  " 

At  the  next  moment  he  was  gone  from  the  room.  The 
two  men  stood  where  he  had  left  them  until  his  footsteps 
had  ceased  on  the  stairs  and  the  door  had  closed  behind 
him.  Then  Drake  cried,  "  Benson— a  telegraph  form  !  I 
must  telegraph  to  Koenig  at  once." 

"  Yes,  he'll  follow  her  up  on  the  double  quick,"  said  Lord 
Robert.  "  But  what  matter  ?  His  face  will  be  enough  to 
frighten  the  orirl.    Ugh!    It  was  the  face  of  a  death's  head  ! " 


280  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

At  dinner  that  niglit  John  Storm  was  more  than  usually- 
silent.  To  break  in  upon  his  gravity,  Mrs.  Callender  asked 
him  what  he  intended  to  do  next. 

"  To  take  priest's  oi'dei-s  without  delay,"  he  said. 

"  And  what  then  ?  " 

"  Then,"  he  said,  lifting  a  twitching  and  suffering  face, 
"  to  make  an  attack  on  the  one  mighty  stronghold  of  the 
devil's  kingdom  whereof  woman  is  the  direct  and  immediate 
victim  ;  to  tell  Society  over  again  it  is  an  organized  hy- 
pocrisy for  the  pursuit  and  demoralization  of  woman,  and 
the  Church  that  bachelorhood  is  not  celibacy,  and  polygamy 
is  against  the  laws  of  God  ;  to  look  and  search  for  the  beaten 
and  broken  who  lie  scattered  and  astray  in  our  bew^ildered 
cities,  and  to  protect  them  and  shelter  them  whatever  they 
are,  however  low  they  have  fallen,  because  they  are  my  sis- 
tei's  and  I  love  tliem." 

"  God  bless  ye,  laddie  !  That's  spoken  like  a  man,"  said 
the  old  woman,  rising  from  her  seat. 

But  John  Storm's  pale  face  had  already  flushed  up  to  the 
eyes,  and  he  dropped  his  head  as  one  who  was  ashamed. 


II- 

At  eight  o'clock  that  night  John  Storm  was  walking 
through  the  streets  of  Soho.  The  bell  of  a  jam  factory  had 
just  been  rung,  and  a  stream  of  young  girls  in  big  hats  with 
gorgeous  flowers  and  sweeping  feathers  were  pouring  out  of 
an  archway  and  going  arm-in-arm  down  the  pavement. 
Men  standing  in  groups  at  street  ends  shouted  to  them  as 
they  passed,  and  they  shouted  back  in  shrill  voices  and 
laughed  with  wild  joy.  In  an  alley  round  one  corner  an 
organ  man  was  playing  "  Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay,"  and  some  of 
the  girls  began  to  dance  and  sing  around  him.  Coming  to 
the  rtmin  artery  of  traffic,  they  were  almost  run  down  by  a 
splendid  equipage  which  was  cutting  across  two  thorough- 
fares into  a  square,  and  they  screamed  with  mock  terror  as 
the  fat  coachman  in  tippet  and  cockade  bellowed  to  them  to 
get  out  of  the  way. 

The  square  was  a  centre  of  gaiety.     Theatres  and  music 


THE  DEVIL'S  ACRE.  2S1 

halls  lined  two  of  its  sides,  and  the  g-as  on  their  facades  and 
the  beacons  on  their  roofs  were  beginning  to  burn  brightly 
in  the  fading  daylight.  With  skips  and  leajjs  the  girls  passed 
over  to  the  doors  of  these  palaces,  and  peered  with  greedy 
eyes  through  lines  of  policemen  and  doorkeepers  in  livery  at 
gentlemen  in  shields  of  shirt-front  and  ladies  in  light  cloaks 
and  long  white  gloves,  stepping  in  satin  slippers  and  patent 
leather  shoes  out  of  gorgeous  carriages  into  gorgeous  halls. 

John  Storm  was  looking  on  at  this  masquerade  when 
suddenly  he  became  aware  that  the  flare  of  coarse  lights  on 
the  front  of  the  building  before  him  formed  the  lettei's  of  a 
word.  The  word  was  "  GLORIA."  Seeing  it  again  as  he 
had  seen  it  in  the  morning,  but  now  identified  and  ex- 
plained, he  grew  hot  and  cold  by  tuims,  and  his  brain,  which 
refused  to  think,  felt  like  a  sail  that  is  flapijing  idly  on  the 
edge  of  the  wind. 

There  was  a  garden  in  the  middle  of  the  square,  and  he 
walked  round  and  round  it.  He  gazed  vacantly  at  a  statue 
in  the  middle  of  the  garden,  and  then  walked  round  the  rails 
again.  The  darkness  was  gathering  fast,  the  gas  was  begin- 
ning to  blaze,  and  he  was  like  a  creature  in  the  coil  of  a 
horrible  fascination.  That  word,  that  name  over  the  music 
hall,  fizzing  and  crackling  in  its  hundred  lights,  seemed  to 
hold  him  as  by  an  eye  of  fire.  And  remembering  what  had 
happened  since  he  left  tlie  monastery — the  sandwich  men, 
the  boards  on  the  omnibuses,  the  hoardings  on  the  walls — 
it  seemed  like  a  fiery  finger  which  had  led  him  to  that  spot. 
Only  one  thing  was  clear — that  a  supernatural  power  had 
brought  him  there,  and  that  it  was  intended  he  should  come. 
Fearfully,  shamefully,  miserably,  rebuking  himself  for  his 
doubts,  yet  conquei-ed  and  compelled  by  them,  he  crossed 
the  street  and  entered  the  music  hall. 

He  was  in  the  pit  and  it  was  crowded  ;  not  a  seat  vacant 
anywhere,  and  many  ]3ersons  standing  packed  in  the  crush- 
room  at  the  back.  His  first  sensation  was  of  being  stared 
at.  First  the  man  at  the  pay-box  and  then  the  check-taker 
had  looked  at  him,  and  now  he  was  being  looked  at  by  the 
people  about  him.  They  were  both  men  and  girls.  Some 
of  the  men  wore  light  frock-coats  and  talked  in  the  slang  of 
the  race-course,  some  of  the  girls  wore  noticeable  hats  and 
19 


282 


THE  CHRISTIAN. 


showy  flowers  in  their  bosoms  and  were  laughing  in  loud 
voices.  They  made  a  way  for  him  of  themselves,  and  he 
passed  through  to  a  wooden  barrier  that  ran  round  the  last 
of  the  pit  seats. 

The  music  hall  was  large,  and  to  John  Storm's  eyes, 
straight  from  the  poverty  of  his  cell,  it  seemed  garish  in  the 
red  and  gold  of  its  Eastern  decorations.  Men  in  the  pit 
seats  were  smoking  pipes  and  cigarettes,  and  waiters  with 
trays  wei'e  hurrying  up  and  down  the  aisles  serving  ale  and 
porter,  which  they  set  down  on  ledges  like  the  book-rests  in 
church.  In  the  stalls  in  front,  which  were  not  so  full,  gen- 
tlemen in  evening  dress  were  smoking  cigars,  and  there  was 
an  arc  of  the  tier  above,  in  which  people  in  fashionable  cos- 
tumes were  talking  audibly.  Higher  yet,  and  unseen  from 
that  position,  was  a  larger  audience  still,  whose  voices  rum- 
bled like  a  distant  sea.  A  cloud  of  smoke  filled  the  atmos- 
phere, and  from  time  to  time  there  was  the  sound  of  pop- 
l)ing  corks  and  breaking  glasses  and  rolling  bottles. 

The  curtain  was  down,  but  the  orchestra  was  beginning 
to  play.  Two  men  in  livery  came  from  the  sides  of  the  cur- 
tain and  fixed  up  large  figures  in  picture  frames  that  were 
attaclied  to  the  wings  of  the  proscenium.  Then  the  curtain 
rose  and  the  entertainment  was  resumed.  It  was  in  sec- 
tions, and  after  each  performance  the  curtain  was  dropped 
and  the  waiters  went  round  with  their  trays  again. 

John  Storm  had  seen  it  all  before  in  the  days  when, 
under  his  father's  guidance,  he  had  seen  everything — the 
juggler,  the  acrobat,  the  step-dancer,  the  comic  singer,  the 
tableaus,  and  the  living  picture.  He  felt  tired  and  ashamed, 
yet  he  could  not  bring  himself  to  go  away.  As  the  evening 
advaiiced  he  thought:  "How  foolish!  What  madness  it 
was  to  think  of  such  a  thing!"  He  was  easier  after  that, 
and  began  to  listen  to  the  talk  of  the  people  about  him.  It 
was  free,  but  not  offensive.  In  the  frequent  intervals  some 
of  tlie  men  played  with  the  girls,  pushing  and  nudging  and 
joking  with  them,  and  the  girls  laughed  and  answered  back. 
Occasionally  one  of  them  would  turn  her  head  aside  and 
look  into  John's  face  with  a  saucy  smile.  "  God  forbid  that 
I  should  grudge  them  their  pleasure  ! "  he  thought.  "  It's  all 
they  have,  poor  creatures ! " 


TfiE  DEVIL'S  ACRE.  283 

But  the  audience  grew  noisier  as  the  evening  went  on. 
They  called  to  the  singers,  made  inarticulate  squeals,  and 
then  laughed  at  their  own  humour.  A  lady  sang  a  comic 
song.  It  described  her  attempt  to  climb  to  the  top  of  an 
omnibus  on  a  windy  day.  John  turned  to  look  at  the  faces 
behind  him,  and  every  face  was  red  and  hot,  and  grinning 
and  grimacing.  He  was  still  half  buried  in  the  monastery 
he  had  left  that  morning,  and  he  thought :  "  Such  are  the 
nightly  pleasures  of  our  people.  To-night,  to-morrow  night, 
the  night  after !     O  my  country,  my  country  ! " 

He  was  awakened  from  these  thoughts  by  an  outburst  of 
applause.  The  curtain  was  down  and  nothing  was  going  on 
except  the  putting  up  of  a  new  figure  in  the  frames.  The 
figure  was  8.  Some  one  behind  him  said,  "  That's  her  num- 
ber ! "  "  The  new  artiste  ?  "  said  another  voice.  "  Gloria," 
said  the  first. 

John  Storm's  head  began  to  swim.  He  looked  back — he 
was  in  a  solid  block  of  people.  "  After  all,  what  reasons 
have  IV  he  thought,  and  he  determined  to  stand  his. 
ground. 

More  applause.  Another  leader  of  the  orchestra  had 
appeared.  Baton  in  hand,  he  was  bowing  from  his  place 
before  the  footlights.  It  was  Koenig,  the  organist,  and 
John  Storm  shuddered  in  the  darkest  corner  of  his  soul. 

The  stalls  had  filled  up  unawares  to  him,  and  a  party 
was  now  coming  into  a  private  box  which  had  hitherto 
been  empty.  The  late-comers  were  Drake  and  Lord  Eobert 
Ure,  and  a  lady  with  short  hair  brushed  back  from  her  fore- 
head. 

John  Storm  felt  the  place  going  round  him,  yet  he 
steadied  and  braced  himself.  "But  this  is  the  natural  at- 
mosphere of  such  people,^'  he  thought.  He  tried  to  find 
satisfaction  in  the  thought  that  Glory  was  not  with  them. 
Perhaps  they  had  exaggerated  their  intimacy  with  her. 

The  band  began  to  play.  It  was  music  for  the  entrance 
of  a  new  performer.  The  audience  became  quiet ;  there  was 
a  keen,  eager,  expectant  air  ;  and  then  the  curtain  went  up. 
John  Storm  felt  dizzy.  If  he  could  have  escaped  he  would 
have  turned  and  fled.  He  gripped  with  both  hands  the  rail 
in  front  of  him. 


284 


THE  CHRISTIAN. 


Then  a  woman  came  gliding  on  to  the  stage.  She  was  a 
tall  girl  in  a  dark  dress  and  long  black  gloves,  with  red  hair, 
and  a  head  like  a  rose.  It  was  Glory  I  A  cloud  came  over 
John  Storm's  eyes,  and  for  a  few  moments  he  saw  no  more. 

There  was  some  applause  from  the  pit  and  the  regions 
overhead.  The  people  in  the  stalls  were  waving  their  hand- 
kerchiefs, and  the  lady  in  the  box  was  kissing  her  hand. 
Glory  was  smiling,  quite  at  her  ease,  apparently  not  at  all 
nervous,  only  a  little  shy  and  with  her  hands  interlaced  in 
front  of  her.  Then  there  was  silence  again  and  she  began 
to  sing. 

It  is  the  moment  when  prayers  go  up  from  the  heart  not 
used  to  pray.  Strange  contradiction !  John  Storm  found 
himself  praying  that  Glory  might  do  well,  that  she  might 
succeed  and  eclipse  everything  !  But  he  had  turned  his  eyes 
away,  and  tlie  sound  of  her  voice  was  even  more  afflicting 
than  the  sight  of  her  face.  It  was  nearly  a  year  since  he 
had  heard  it  last,  and  now  he  was  hearing  it  under  these 
conditions,  in  a  place  like  this !  He  must  have  been  mak- 
ing noises  by  his  breathing.  "  Hush  !  hush  !  "  said  the  peo- 
ple about  him,  and  somebody  tapped  him  on  the  shoulder. 

After  a  moment  he  regained  control  of  himself,  and  he 
lifted  his  head  and  listened.  Glory's  voice,  Avhich  had  been 
quavering  at  fii'st,  gathered  strength.  She  was  singing 
Mylecharaine,  and  the  wild,  plaintive  harmony  of  the  old 
Manx  ballad  was  floating  in  the  air  like  the  sound  of  the 
sea.  After  her  first  lines  a  murmur  of  approval  went  round, 
the  i)eople  sat  up  and  leaned  forward,  and  then  there  was 
silence  again — dead  silence — and  then  loud  applause. 

But  it  was  only  with  the  second  verse  that  the  humour 
of  her  song  began,  and  John  Storm  waited  for  it  with  a  trem- 
bling heart.  He  had  heard  her  sing  it  a  hundred  times  in 
the  old  days,  and  she  was  singing  it  now  as  she  had  sung  it 
before.  There  Avere  the  same  tricks  of  voice,  the  same  tricks 
of  gesture,  the  same  expressions,  the  same  grimaces.  Every- 
thing was  the  same,  and  yet  everything  was  changed.  He 
knew  it.  He  was  sure  it  must  be  so.  So  artless  and  inno- 
cent then,  now  so  subtle  and  significant !  Where  was  the 
diilerence  ?  The  ditference  was  in  the  place,  in  the  people. 
John  Storm  could  have  found  it  in  his  heart  to  turn  on  the 


THE  DEVIL'S  ACRE.  285 

audience  and  insult  them.  Foul-minded  creatures,  laugh- 
ing, screaming-,  squealing,  punctuating  their  own  base  inter- 
pretations and  making  evil  of  what  was  harmless  !  How  he 
hated  the  griniiing  faces  round  about  him  ! 

When  the  song  was  finished  Glory  swept  a  gay  curtsy, 
lifted  her  skirts,  and  tripped  off  the  stage.  Then  there  were 
shouting,  whistling,  stamping,  and  deafening  applause.  The 
whole  house  was  unanimous  for  an  encore,  and  she  came 
back  smiling  and  bowing  with  a  certain  look  of  elation  and 
pride.  John  Storm  was  becoming  terrified  by  his  own 
anger.  "  Be  quiet  there  ! "  said  some  one  behind  him.  "  Who's 
the  josser  ?  "  said  somebody  else,  and  then  he  heard  Glory's 
voice  again. 

It  was  another  Manx  ditty.  A  crew  of  yoimg  fishei'men 
are  going  ashore  on  Saturday  night  after  their  week  on  the 
sea  after  the  herring.  They  go  up  to  the  inn ;  their  sweet- 
hearts meet  them  there  ;  they  drink  and  sing.  At  length 
they  are  so  overcome  by  liquor  and  love  that  they  have  to 
be  put  to  bed  in  their  big  sea  boots.  Then  the  girls  kiss 
them  and  leave  them.  The  singer  imitated  the  kissing,  and 
the  delighted  audience  repeated  the  sound.  Sounds  of  kiss- 
ing came  from  all  parts  of  the  hall,  mingled  with  loud  accla- 
mations of  laughter.  The  singer  smiled  .^nd  kissed  back. 
Somehow  she  conveyed  the  sense  of  a  confidential  feeling 
as  if  she  were  doing  it  for  each  separate  i^erson  in  the 
audience,  and  each  person  had  an  impulse  to  respond.  It 
was  irresistible,  it  was  maddening,  it  swept  over  the  whole 
house. 

John  Storm  felt  sick  in  his  very  soul.  Glory  knew  well 
what  she  was  doing.  She  knew  what  these  people  wanted. 
His  Glory !  Glory  of  the  old,  innocent  happy  days !  O 
God  !  O  God  !  If  he  could  only  get  out !  But  that  was  im- 
possible. Behind  him  the  dense  mass  was  denser  than  ever, 
and  he  was  tightly  wedged  in  by  a  wall  of  faces — hot,  eager, 
with  open  mouths,  teeth  showing,  and  glittering  and  danc- 
ing eyes.  He  tried  not  to  listen  to  what  the  people  about 
were  saying,  yet  he  could  not  help  but  hear. 

"  Tasty,  ain't  she  ?  "  "  Cerulean,  eh  ?  "  "  Bit  'ot,  certin- 
ly  !  "  "  Well,  if  I  was  a  Johnny,  and  had  got  the  oof,  she'd 
have  a  brougham  and  a  sealskin  to-morrow."     "To-night, 


286  THE   CHRISTIAN. 

you  mean,"  and  then  there  were  significant  squeaks  and 
trills  of  laughter. 

They  called  her  back  again,  and  yet 'again,  and  she  re- 
turned with  unaffected  cheerfulness  and  a  certain  look  of 
triumph.  At  one  moment  she  was  doing  the  gaiety  of 
youth,  and  at  the  next  the  crabbedness  of  age ;  now  the  un- 
developed femininity  of  the  young  girl,  then  the  volubility 
of  the  old  woman.  But  John  Storm  was  trying  to  hear 
none  of  it.  With  his  head  on  his  breast  and  his  eyes  doAvn 
he  was  struggling  to  think  of  the  monastery,  and  to  imagine 
that  he  was  still  buried  in  his  cell.  It  was  only  this  morn- 
ing that  he  left  it,  yet  it  seemed  to  be  a  hundred  years  ago. 
Last  night  the  Brotherhood,  the  singing  of  Evensong,  Com- 
pline, the  pure  air,  silence,  solitude,  and  the  atmos^jhere  of 
prayer;  and  to-night  the  crowds,  the  clouds  of  smoke,  the 
odour  of  drink,  the  meaning  laughter,  and  Glory  as  the  cen- 
tre of  it  all ! 

For  a  moment  everything  was  blotted  out,  and  then  there 
was  loud  hand-clapping  and  cries  of  "  Bravo  !  "  He  lifted 
his  head.  Glory  had  finished  and  was  bowing  herself  off. 
The  lady  in  the  private  box  flung  her  a  bouquet  of  damask 
roses.  She  picked  it  up  and  kissed  it,  and  bowed  to  the  box, 
and  then  the  acclamations  of  applause  were  renewed. 

The  crush  behind  relaxed  a  little,  and  he  began  to  elbow 
his  way  out.  People  were  rising  or  stirring  everywhere, 
and  the  house  was  emptying  fast.  As  the  audience  surged 
down  the  corridors  to  the  doors  they  talked  and  laughed  and 
made  inarticulate  sounds.  "  A  tricky  bit  o'  muslin,  eh  ? " 
"  Yus,  she's  thick."  "  She's  my  dart,  anyhow."  Then  the 
whistling  of  a  tune.  It  was  the  chorus  of  Mylecharaine. 
John  Storm  felt  the  cool  air  of  the  street  on  his  hot  face  at 
last.  The  policemen  were  keeping  a  way  for  the  people 
coming  from  the  stalls,  the  doorkeepers  were  Avhistling  or 
shouting  for  cabs,  and  their  cries  were  being  caught  up  by 
the  match  boys,  who  Avere  ruiwiing  in  and  out  like  dogs 
among  the  carriage  ^heels  and  the  horses'  feet.  "  En-sim  !  " 
"  Four-wheel-er ! " 

In  a  narrow  court  at  tlie  back,  dimly  lit  and  not  much 
froqiu'iited,  tliere  was  a  small  open  door  under  a  lamp  sus- 
pended from  a  high  blank  wall.     This  was  the  stage-door  of 


THE  DEVIL'S  ACRE.  287 

the  music  hall,  and  a  group  of  young-  men,  looking  like 
hairdressers'  assistants,  blocked  the  liavement  at  either  side 
of  it.  "  Wonder  what  she's  like  off  ?  "  "  Like  a  laidy,  you 
bet."  "  Yus,  but  none  o' yer  bloomin' hamatoors."'  "Gawd, 
here's  the  josser  again  !  " 

John  Storm  pushed  his  way  through  to  where  a  commis- 
sionaire sat  behind  a  glass  partition  in  a  little  room  walled 
with  pigeon  holes. 

"  Can  I  see  Miss  Quayle  ?  "  he  asked. 

The  porter  looked  blank. 

"  Gloria,  then,"  said  John  Storm,  with  an  effort. 

The  porter  looked  at  him  suspiciously.  Had  he  an  ap- 
pointment ?  No  ;  but  could  he  send  in  his  name  ?  The  por- 
ter looked  doubtful.  Would  she  come  out  soon  ?  The  porter 
did  not  know.  Would  she  come  this  way  ?  The  porter  could 
not  tell.    Could  he  have  her  address  ? 

"  If  ye  want  to  write  to  the  laidy,  write  here,"  said  the 
porter,  with  a  motion  of  his  hand  to  the  pigeon-holes. 

John  Storm  felt  humiliated  and  ashamed.  The  hair- 
dressers' assistants  were  grinning  at  him.  He  went  out, 
feeling  that  Glory  was  farther  than  ever  from  him  now,  and 
if  he  met  her  they  might  not  speak.  But  he  could  not  drag 
himself  away.  In  the  darkness  under  a  lamp  at  the  other 
side  of  the  street  he  stood  and  waited.  Shoddy  broughams 
drove  up,  with  drivers  in  shabby  livery,  bringing  "  turns  " 
in  wonderful  hats  and  overcoats,  over  impossible  wigs, 
whiskers,  and  noses — niggers,  acrobats,  clowns,  and  comic 
singers,  who  stepped  out,  shook  the  straw  of  their  carriage 
carpets  off  their  legs,  and  passed  in  at  the  stage  entrance. 

At  length  the  commissionaire  appeared  at  the  door  and 
whistled,  and  a  hansom  cab  rattled  up  to  the  end  of  the 
court.  Then  a  lady  muffled  in  a  cape,  with  the  hood  drawn 
over  her  head,  and  carrying  a  bouquet  of  roses,  came  out 
leaning  on  the  arni  of  a  gentleman.  She  stood  a  moment 
by  his  side  and  spoke  to  him  and  laughed.  John  heard  her 
laughter.  At  the  next  moment  she  had  stepped  into  the 
hansom,  the  door  had  fallen  to,  the  driver  had  turned,  the 
gentleman  had  raised  his  hat,  the  light  had  fallen  on  the 
lady's  face,  and  she  Avas  leaning  forward  and  smiling, 
John  saw  her  smiles. 


2S8  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

At  the  next  moment  the  liansom  had  passed  into  the  illu- 
minated thoroughfares  and  the  group  of  people  had  dis- 
persed. John  Storm  was  alone  under  the  lamp  in  the  little 
dark  street,  and  somewhere  in  the  dark  alleys  behind  him 
the  organ  man  Avas  still  gi'inding  out  "  Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay." 

"  Weel,  what  luck  on  your  first  night  out  ? "  said  Mi*s. 
Callender  at  breakfast  in  the  morning.  "  Found  any  of  the 
poor  lost  things  yet  ?  " 

"  One,"  said  John,  with  a  rueful  face.  "  Lost  enough, 
though  she  doesn't  know  it  yet,  God  help  her  I  " 

"  They  never  do  at  first,  laddie.  Write  to  her  friends,  if 
she  has  any." 

"  Her  friends  ? " 

"  Nothing  like  home  influences,  ye  ken." 

"  I  will — I  must  1     It's  all  I  can  do  now." 


III. 

"  The  Priory,  Friday  Morning, 
"  Oh,  my  dear  aunties,  don't  be  ten-ified,  but  Glory  has 
had  a  kind  of  a  wee  big  triumph  !  Nothing  very  awful,  you 
know,  but  on  Monday  night,  before  a  rather  larger  company 
than  usual,  she  sang  and  recited  and  play-acted  a  little,  and 
as  a  result  all  the  earth — the  London  earth — is  talking  about 
her,  and  nobody  is  taking  any  notice  of  the  rest  of  the 
world.  Every  post  is  bringing  me  Rowel's  with  ribbons  and 
cards  attached,  or  illustrated  weeklies  with  my  picture  and 
my  life  in  little,  and  I  find  it's  wonderful  what  a  lot  of 
things  you  may  learn  about  yourself  if  you'll  only  read  the 
papers.  My  room  at  this  moment  is  like  a  florist's  window 
at  nine  o'clock  on  Saturday  morning,  and  I  have  reason  to 
suspect  that  mine  host  and  teachei',  Carl  Koenig,  F.  E.  C.  O., 
exhibits  them  to  admiring  neighbours  when  I  am  out.  The 
voice  of  that  dear  old  turtle  has  ever  since  Monday  been 
heard  in  the  land,  and  besides  telling  me  about  Poland  day 
and  night  from  all  the  subterranean  passages  of  the  house, 
he  has  taken  to  waiting  on  me  like  a  nigger,  and  ordering 
soups  and  jellies  for  me  as  if  I  had  suddenly  become  an  in- 


THE   DEVIL'S  ACRE.  289 

valid.  Of  course,  I  am  an  able-bodied  woman  just  the  same 
as  ever,  but  my  nerves  have  been  on  the  rack  all  the  week, 
and  I  feel  exactly  as  I  did  long  ago  at  Peel  when  I  was  a 
little  naughty  minx  and  got  up  into  the  tower  of  the  old 
church  and  began  pulling  at  the  bell  rope,  you  remember. 
Oh,  dear  !  oh,  dear  !  My  frantic  terror  at  the  noise  of  the  big 
bells  and  the  vibration  of  the  shaky  old  walls !  Once  I  had 
begun  I  couldn't  leave  off  for  my  life,  but  went  on  tugging 
and  tugging  and  quaking  and  quaking  until — have  you  for- 
gotten it  ? — all  the  people  came  running  helter-skelter  under 
the  impression  that  the  town  was  afire.  And  then,  behold,  it 
was  only  little  me,  trembling  like  a  leaf  and  crying  like  a 
ninny  I  I  remember  I  was  scolded  and  smacked  and  dis- 
missed into  outer  darkness  (it  was  the  chip  vault,  I  think), 
for  that  first  outbreak  of  fame,  and  now,  lest  you  should 
want  to  mete  out  the  same  punishment  to  me  again 

"  Aunt  Anna,  I'm  knitting  the  sweetest  little  shawl  for 
you,  dear — blue  and  white,  to  suit  your  complexion — being 
engaged  in  the  evening  only,  and  most  of  the  day  sole  mis- 
tress of  my  own  will  and  pleasure.  How  charming  of  me, 
isn't  it  ?  But  I'm  afraid  it  isn't,  because  you'll  see  through 
me  like  a  colander,  for  I  want  to  tell  you  something  which 
I  have  kept  back  too  long,  and  when  I  think  of  it  I  grow 
old  and  wrinkled  like  a  Christmas  apple.  So  you  must  be  a 
pair  of  absolute  old  angels,  aunties,  and  break  the  news  to 
grandfather. 

"  You  know  I  told  you,  Aunt  Rachel,  to  say  something 
for  me  at  nine  o'clock  on  the  Queen's  birthday.  And  you 
remember  that  Mr.  Drake  used  to  think  pearls  and  diamonds 
of  Glory,  and  predict  wonderful  things  for  lier.  Then  you 
don't  forget  that  Mr.  Drake  had  a  friend  named  Lord  Robert 
Ure,  commonly  called  Lord  Bob.  Well,  you  see,  by  Mr, 
Drake's  advice,  and  Lord  Bobbie's  influence  and  agency, 
and  I  don't  know  what,  I  have  made  one  more  change — it's 
to  be  the  last,  dears,  the  very  last — in  my  Wandering-Jew 
existence,  and  now  I  am  no  longer  a  society  entertainer,  be- 
cause I  am  a  music-ball  ai't " 

Glory  had  written  so  far  when  she  dropped  the  pen  and 
rose  from  the  table,  wiping  her  eyes. 


290  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

"  My  poor  child,  you  can't  tell  them,  it's  impossible ;  they 
would  never  forgive  you  ! " 

Then  a  carriage  stopped  befoi*e  the  house,  the  garden  bell 
was  rung,  and  the  maid  came  into  the  room  with  a  lady's 
card.  It  was  inscribed  "  Miss  Polly  Love,"  with  many 
splashes  and  flourishes. 

"Ask  her  up,"  said  Glory.  And  then  Polly  came  rus- 
tling up  the  stairs  in  a  silver-gray  silk  dress  and  a  showy 
hat,  and  with  a  pug-dog  tucked  under  her  arm.  She  looked 
older  and  less  beautiful.  The  pink  and  ivory  of  her  cheeks 
was  coated  with  powder,  and  her  light  gray  eyes  were  pen- 
cilled. There  was  the  same  blemished  appearance  as  before, 
and  the  crack  in  the  vase  was  now  j)lainly  visi^fe. 

Glory  had  met  the  girl  only  once  since  they  parted  after 
the  hospital,  but  Polly  kissed  her  eifusively.  Then  she  sat 
down  and  began  to  cry. 

"  Perhaps  you  wouldn't  think  it,  my  dear,  but  I'm  the 
most  miserable  girl  in  London.  Haven't  you  heard  about 
it  ?  I  thought  everybody  knew.  Robert  is  going  to  be 
married.  Yes,  indeed,  to-mori'ow  morning  to  that  American 
heiress,  and  I  hadn't  an  idea  of  it  until  Monday  afternoon. 
That  was  the  day  of  your  luncheon,  dear,  and  I  felt  sure 
something  was  going  to  happen,  because  I  broke  my  look- 
ing-glass dressing  to  go  out.  Robert  took  me  home,  and  he 
began  to  play  the  piano,  and  I  could  see  he  was  going  to 
say  something.  '  Do  you  know,  little  woman,  I'm  to  be 
married  on  Saturday  ? '  I  wonder  I  didn't  drop,  but  I  didn't, 
and  he  went  on  playing.  But  it  was  no  use  trying,  and 
I  burst  out  and  ran  into  my  room.  After  a  minute  I  heard 
him  coming  in,  but  he  didn't  lift  me  up  as  he  used  to  do. 
Only  talked  to  me  over  my  back,  telling  me  to  control  my- 
self, and  what  he  was  going  to  do  for  me,  and  so  on.  He 
used  to  say  a  few  tears  made  me  nicer  looking,  but  it  was  no 
good  crying — and  then  he  went  away." 

She  began  to  cry  again,  and  the  dog  in  her  lap  began  to 
howl. 

"  0  God  !  I  don't  know  what  I've  done  to  be  so  unfortu- 
nate. I've  not  been  flash  at  all,  and  I  never  went  to  cafea 
at  niglit,  or  to  Sally's  or  Kate's,  as  so  many  girls  do,  and  he 
can't  say  I  ever  took  notice  of  anybody  else.    When  I  love 


THE  DEVIL'S  ACRE.  291 

anybody  I  think  of  him  last  thing-  at  niglit  and  first  thing 

in  the  morning-,  and  now  to  be  left  alone I'm  sure  I 

shall  never  live  throug-h  it !," 

Glory  tried  to  comfoi't  the  poor  broken  creature.  It  was 
her  duty  to  live.  There  was  her  child — had  she  never  even 
seen  it  since  she  parted  with  it  to  Mrs.  .Tupe  ?  It  must  be 
such  a  darling  by  this  time,  creeping  about  and  talking  a 
little,  wherever  it  was.  She  ought  to  have  the  child  to  live 
with  her,  it  would  be  such  company. 

Polly  kissed  the  pug  to  stop  its  whining,  and  said :  "  I 
don't  want  company.     Life  isn't  the  same  thing  to  me  now. 

He  thinks  because  he  is  marrying  that  woman What 

better  is  snw  than  me,  I  would  like  to  know  ?  She's  only 
snapping  at  him  for  what  he  is,  and  he  is  only  taking  her 
for  what  she's  got,  and  I've  a  great  mind  to  go  to  All  Saints 
and  shame  them.  You  wouldn't  ?  Well,  it's  hard  to  hide 
one's  feelings,  but  it  would  serve  them  right  if — if  I  did  it." 

Polly  had  risen  with  a  wild  look,  and  was  pressing  the 
pug  so  hard  that  it  was  howling  again. 

"  Did  what  ?  "  said  Glory. 

"  Nothing — that  is  to  say " 

"  You  mustn't  dream  of  going  to  the  church.  The  po- 
lice  " 

"  Oh,  it  isn't  the  police  I'm  afraid  of,"  said  Polly,  tossing 
her  head. 

"  What  then  ? " 

"  Never  mind,  my  dear,"  said  Polly. 

On  the  way  downstairs  she  reproached  herself  for  not 
seeing  what  was  coming.  "  But  girls  like  us  never  do,  now 
do  we  ? " 

Glory  coloured  up  to  her  hair,  but  made  no  protest.  At 
the  gate  Polly  wiped  her  eyes  and  drew  down  her  veil,  and 
said  :  "  I'm  sorry  to  say  it  to  your  face,  my  dear,  but  it's  all 
been  that  Mr.  Drake's  doings,  and  a  girl  ought  to  know  he'd 
do  as  much  himself,  and  worse.  But  you're  a  great  woman 
now,  and  in  everybody's  mouth,  so  you  needn't  care. 
Only " 

Glory's  face  was  scarlet  and  her  under  lip  was  bleeding. 
Yet  she  kissed  the  poor  shallow  thing  at  parting,  because 
she  was  down,  and  did  not  understand,  and  lived  in  another 


202  THE   CHRISTIAN. 

world  entirely.     But  going  back  to  where  her  letter  lay  un- 
finished she  thought :  "  Impossible  !    If  this  girl,  living  in  an 

atmosphere  so  different,  thinks  that "     Then  she  sat  at 

the  table  and  forced  herself  to  tell  all. 

She  had  got  through  the  red  riot  of  her  confession  and 
was  writing:  "I  don't  know  what  he  would  think  of  it,  but 
do  you  know  I  thouglit  I  saw  his  face  on  Wednesday  night. 
It  was  in  the  dark,  and  I  was  in  a  cab  driving  away  from 
the  stage  door.  But  so  changed  !  oh,  so  changed  !  It  must 
have  been  a  dream,  and  it  was  the  same  as  if  his  ghost  had 
passed  me." 

Then  she  became  aware  of  voices  in  dispute  downstairs. 
First  a  mail's  voice,  then  the  voices  of  two  ffcen — one  of 
them  Koenig's,  the  other  with  a  haunting  ring  in  it.  She 
got  up  from  the  table  and  went  to  the  door  of  her  i*oom, 
going  on  tip-toe,  yet  hardly  knowing  wh}-.  Koenig  was 
saying  :  "  No,  sair,  de  lady  does  not  lif  hei-e."  Then  a  deep, 
strong  chest-voice  answered,  "  Mr.  Koenig,  surely  you  re- 
member me  ? "  and  Glory's  heart  seemed  to  beat  like  a 
watch.  "No — o,  sair.  Are  you—  Oh,  yes;  what  am  I 
thinking  of  ?—     But  de  lady-^^ — " 

"Mr.  Koenig,"  Glory  called,  cried,  gasped  over  the  stair- 
rail,  "ask  the  gentleman  to  come  up,  please." 

She  hardly  knew  what  happened  next,  only  that  Koe- 
nig seemed  to  be  muttering  confused  explanations  below, 
and  that  she  was  back  in  her  sitting-room  giving  a  glance 
into  the  looking-glass  and  doing  something  with  her  hair. 
Then  tli#re  was  a  step  on  the  stairs,  on  the  landing,  at  the 
threshold*  and  she  fell  back  a  few  paces  from  the  door,  that 
she  might  see  him  as  he  came  in.  He  knocked.  Her  heart 
was  beating  so  violently  that  she  had  to  keep  her  hand  over 
it.  "  Who's  there  ? " 
"  It  is  I." 
"  Who's  I  ? " 

Then  she  saw  him  coming  dovrn  on  her,  and  the  very 
sunlight  seemed  to  wave  like  the  shadows  on  a  ship.  He 
was  paler  and  thinner,  his  great  eyes  looked  weary  though 
they  smiled,  his  hand  felt  bony  though  firm,  and  his  head 
was  closely  cropped. 

She  looked  at  him  for  a  moment  without  speaking  and 


THE   DEVIL'S  ACRE.  293 

■with  a  sensation  of  fulness  at  her  heart  that  was  ahnost 
choking  her. 

"  Is   it   you  ?     I   didn't   know  it  was    you — I  was    just 

thinking "     She  was   talking  at  random,  and  was  out 

of  breath  as  if  she  had  been  running. 

"  Glory,  I  have  frightened  you  !  " 

"  Frightened  ?  Oh,  no !  Why  should  you  think  so  ? 
Perhaps  I  am  crying,  but  then  I'm  always  doing  that 
nowadays.     And,  besides,  you  are  so " 

"  Yes,  I  an^  altered,"  he  said  in  the  pause  that  followed. 

•'And  I?" 

"  You  are  altered  too."  He  was  looking  at  her  with  an 
earnest  and  passionate  gaze.  It  was  she — herself — Glory — 
not  merely  a  vision  or  a  dream.  Again  he  recognised  the 
glorious  eyes  with  their  brilliant  lashes  and  the  flashing 
spot  in  one  of  them  that  had  so  often  set  his  heart  beating. 
She  looked  back  at  him  and  thought,  "How  ill  he  must 
have  been!"  and  then  a  lump  came  into  her  throat  and  she 
began  to  laugh  that  she  might  not  have  to  cry,  and  broke 
out  into  broad  Manx  lest  he  should  hear  the  tremor  in  her 
voice : 

"  But  you're  coming-to,  aren't  ye  ?  And  you've  left 
that  theer — Aw,  it's  glad  ter'ble  I  am,  as  our  people  say, 
and  it's  longin'  mortal  you'd  be  for  all,  boy." 

Another  trill  of  nervous  laughter,  and  then  a  burst  of 
earnest  English  :  "  But  tell  me,  you've  come  for  good — you 
are  not  going  back  to " 

"  No,  I  am  not  going  back  to  the  Brotherhood,  Glory." 
How  friendly  his  low  voice  sounded  ! 

"And  you  ? " 

"  Well,  I've  left  the  hospital,  you  see." 

"  Yes,  I  see,"  he  said.  His  weary  eyes  were  wandering 
about  the  room,  and  for  the  first  time  she  felt  ashamed  of 
its  luxuries  and  its  flowers. 

"  But  how  did  you  find  me  ? " 

"  I  went  to  the  hospital  first " 

"  So  you  hadn't  forgotten  me  ?     Do  you  know  I  thought 

you  had  quite But  tell  me  at  once,  where  did  you  go 

then  ? " 

He  was  silent  for  a  moment,  and  she  said,  "  Well  ? " 


294  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

"  Then  I  went  to  Mr.  Drake's  chambers." 

"I  don't  know  why  everybody  should  think  that  Mr. 
Drake '' 

His  great  eyes  were  fixed  on  her  face  and  his  mouth 
was  quivering,  and,  to  prevent  him  from  speaking,  slie  put 
on  a  look  of  forced  gaiety  and  said,  "  But  how  did  you  light 
on  nie  at  last  ? " 

"  I  meant  to  find  you.  Glory,  if  I  tramped  all  London 
over  and  everybody  denied  you  to  me  " — the  lump  in  her 
throat  was  hurting  her  dreadfully — "  but  I  chanced  to  see 
the  name  over  the  music  hall." 

She  saw  it  coming,  and  broke  into  laughter.  "The 
music  hall !     Only  think  !     You  looking  at  music  halls  ! " 

"  I  was  there  on  Monday  night." 

"  You  ?  Monday  ?  Then  perhaps  it  was  not  my  fancy 
that  I  saw  you  by  the  stage  do "  Her  nerves  were  get- 
ting more  and  more  excited,  and  to  calm  them  she  crossed 
her  arms  above  her  head.  "  So  they  gave  you  my  address 
at  the  stage  door,  did  they  ?  " 

"  No,  I  wrote  for  it  to  Peel." 

"  Peel  ? "  She  caught  her  breath,  and  her  arms  came 
down.     "  Then  perhaps  you  told  them  where " 

"  I  told  them  nothing.  Glory." 

She  looked  at  him  through  her  eyelashes,  her  head  held 
down. 

"  Not  that  it  matters,  you  know.     "  I've  just  been  writing 

to  them,  and  they'll  soon But,  oh,  I've  so  much  to  saj', 

and  I  can't  say  it  here.  Couldn't  we  go  somewhere  ?  Into 
the  park  or  on  to  the  heath,  or  farther— much  farther — the 
room  is  so  small,  and  I  feel  as  if  I've  been  suffocating  for 
want  of  air." 

"  I've  something  to  say  too,  and  if " 

"Then  let  it  be  to-morrow  morning,  and  we'll  start  early, 
and  you'll  bring  me  back  in  time  for  the  theatre.  Say 
Paddington  Station,  at  eleven — will  that  do  ? " 

"Yes." 

She  saw  him  to  the  gate,  and  when  he  was  going  she 
wanted  him  to  kiss  her  hand,  so  she  pretended  to  do  the 
high  handshake,  but  he  only  held  it  for  a  moment  and 
looked  steadily  into  her  eyes.     The  sunshine  was  pouring 


THE  DEVIL'S  ACRE.  295 

into  the  garden,  and  she  was  bareheaded.  Her  hair  was 
coiled  up,  and  she  was  wearing  a  light  moi*ning  blouse. 
He  thought  she  had  never  looked  so  beautiful.  On  getting 
into  the  omnibus  at  the  end  of  the  street  he  took  a  letter 
out  of  his  vest  pocket,  and,  being  alone,  he  first  carried  it  to 
his  lips,  then  reopened  and  read  it : 

"  See  her  at  once,  dear  John,  and  keep  in  touch  with  her, 
and  I  shall  be  hajjpy  and  relieved.  As  for  your  father,  that 
old  Chaise  is  going  crazy  and  is  sending  Lord  Storm  crazy 
too.  He  has  actually  discovered  that  the  dust  the  witch, 
w^alks  on  who  has  cast  the  evil  eye  on  you  lies  in  front  of 
Glenfaba  gate,  and  he  has  been  sweeping  it  up  o'  nights 
and  scattering  it  in  front  of  Knockaloe  !  What  simplicity  ! 
There  are  only  two  women  here.  Does  the  silly  old  gawk 
mean  Rachel  ?  or  is  it,  perhaps.  Aunt  Anna  ? " 

And  while  the  omnibus  joggled  down  the  street,  and  the 
pale  young  clergyman  with  the  great  weary  eyes  was  i)or- 
ing  over  his  letter,  Glory  was  sitting  at  her  table  and  writ- 
ing with  flying  fingers  and  a  look  of  enthusiastic  ecstasy  : 

"I've  had  thi'ee  bites  at  this  cherry.  But  who  do  you 
think  has  just  been  here  ?  John  I — John  Storm !  But 
then  you  know  that  he  is  back,  and  it  wasn't  merely  my 
fancy  that  I  saw  him  by  the  stage  door.  It  seems  as  if 
people  have  been  denying  me  to  him,  and  he  has  been 
waiting  for  me  and  watching  over  me."  (Blot.)  "His 
voice  is  so  low,  but  I  suppose  that  comes  to  people  who  are 
much  alone,  and  he  is  so  thin  and  so  pale,  and  his  eyes  ai'e 
so  large,  and  they  have  that  deep  look  that  cuts  into  the 
heart.  He  knew  he  was  changed,  and  I  think  he  was 
ashamed"  (blot),  "but  of  course  I  didn't  let  whit  that  I  was 
taking  notice,  and  I'm  so  happy  for  his  sake,  poor  fellow ! 
that  he  has  escaped  from  his  cage  in  that  Salvation  Zoo  that 
I  know  I  shall  make  them  split  their  sides  in  the  theatre 
to-night."  (Blot,  blot.)  "How  tiresome!  This  ink  must 
have  got  water  in  it  somehow,  and  then  my  handwriting  is 
such  a  hop-skip-and-a-jump  anyway.     But  hoots  ! 

'*  Why  shouldn't  I  love  Johnny, 
And  why  shouldn't  Johnny  love  me  ? 

"  Glory." 


296  THE  CHRISTIAN, 


IV. 

It  was  a  beautiful  May  morning',  and  standing  outside 
Paddington  Station  with  the  dog  at  his  feet,  he  felt  her  ap- 
proach instinctively  as  she  came  toward  him  with  her  free 
step,  in  her  white  cambric  dress,  under  the  light  parasol 
fringed  with  lace.  Her  face  was  glowing  with  the  fresh 
air,  and  she  looked  happy  and  bright.  As  they  walked  into 
tlie  station  she  poured  out  a  stream  of  questions  about  the 
dog,  took  pos.sessiou  of  him  straightway,  and  concluded  to 
call  him  Don. 

They  agreed  to  spend  the  day  at  Burnham  Beeches,  and 
while  he  went  for  the  tickets  she  stepped  on  to  the  platform. 
It  was  Saturday,  the  bookstall  was  ablaze  with  the  pictui"e 
papers,  and  one  of  them  was  prominently  displayed  at  a 
page  containing  her  own  portrait.  She  wanted  John  to  see 
this,  so  she  invented  an  excuse  for  bringing  him  face  to  face 
with  it,  and  then  she  laughed  and  he  bought  the  paper. 

The  clerk  recognised  her  —  they  could  see  that  by  the 
smile  he  kept  in  reserve — and  a  group  of  oflQcers  in  the 
Guards,  in  flannels  and  straw  hats,  going  down  to  their  club 
at  Maidenhead,  looked  at  her  and  nudged  each  other  as  if 
they  knew  who  she  was.  Her  eyes  danced,  her  lips  smiled, 
and  she  was  proud  that  John  should  see  the  first  fruits  of 
her  fame.  She  was  proud  of  him,  too,  with  his  bold  walk 
and  strong  carriage,  as  they  passed  tlie  officers  in  their  neg- 
ligent dress,  with  their  red  and  blue  neckties.  But  John's 
heart  was  aching,  and  he  was  wondering  how  he  was  to 
begin  on  the  duty  he  had  to  do. 

From  the  moment  they  started  she  gave  herself  up  to  the 
delights  of  their  holiday,  and  even  the  groaning  and  crank- 
ing and  joggling  of  the  train  amused  her.  When  the  Guards 
got  into  their  lirst-cluss  carriage  they  had  glanced  at  the 
open  window  where  her  brilliant  eyes  and  rosy  lips  were 
gleaming  behind  a  veil.  John  gazed  at  her  w^ith  his  slow 
and  tender  looks,  and  felt  guilty  and  ashamed. 

They  left  the  train  at  Slough,  and  a  wave  of  freshness, 
with  an  odour  of  verdure  and  saj),  blew  into  their  faces. 
The  dog  leaped  and  barked,  and  G  lory  skipped  along  with 


THE  DEVIL'S  ACRE.  297 

it,  breaking  every  moment  into  enthusiastic  exclamations. 
There  was  hardly  any  wind,  and  the  clouds,  which  were 
very  high  overhead,  were  scarcely  moving.  It  was  a  glori- 
ous day,  and  Glory's  face  wore  an  expx'ession  of  perfect  hap- 
piness. 

They  lunched  at  the  old  hotel  in  the  town,  with  the  win- 
dow open,  and  the  swallows  darting  in  the  air  outside,  and 
Glory,  who  took  milk  "  for  remembrance,"  rose  and  said,  "  I 
looks  toward  Mr.  Storm,"  and  then  drank  his  health  and 
swept  him  the  prettiest  curtsy.  All  through  lunch  she 
kept  feeding  the  dog  from  her  own  fingers,  and  at  the  end 
rebuked  him  for  spreading  his  bones  in  a  half  circle  across 
the  carpet,  a  thing  which  was  never  done,  she  said,  in  the 
best  society,  this  side  the  Cannibal  Islands. 

"  By-and-bye,"  he  thought,  "  time  enough  by-and-bye," 
for  the  charm  of  her  joy  was  infectious. 

The  sun  was  high  when  they  started  on  their  walk,  and 
her  face  looked  flushed  and  warm.  But  through  the  park- 
like district  to  the  wood  she  raced  with  Don,  and  made  him 
leap  over  her  sunshade  and  roll  over  and  over  on  the  bright 
green  grass.  The  larks  were  trilling  overhead,  everything 
w^as  humming  and  singing. 

"  Let  her  have  one  happy  day,"  he  thought,  and  they 
began  to  call  and  shout  to  each  other. 

Then  they  came  to  the  beeches,  and,  being  sheltered  from 
the  fiery  rays  of  the  sun,  she  put  down  her  sunshade  and 
John  took  off  his  hat.  The  silence  and  gloom,  the  great 
gnarled  trees,  with  their  thews  and  sinews,  their  arms  and 
thighs  and  loins,  the  gentle  rustle  of  the  breeze  in  the 
branches  overhead,  the  deep  accumulation  of  dead  leaves 
underfoot,  the  fluttering  of  wings,  the  low  cooing  of  pigeons, 
and  all  the  mystery  and  wonder  of  the  wood,  brought  a 
sense  of  awe,  as  on  entering  a  mighty  minster  in  the  dusk. 
But  this  wore  away  presently,  and  Glory  began  to  sing. 
Her  pure  voice  echoed  in  the  fragrant  air,  and  the  happiness 
so  long  pent  up  and  starved  seemed  to  bubble  in  every  word 
and  note. 

"  Isn't  this  better  than  singing  in  music  halls  ? "  he 
thought,  and  then  he  began  to  sing  too,  just  like  any  happy 
boy,  without  thinking  of  yesterday  or  to-morrow,  of  before 
20 


298  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

or  after.  She  smiled  at  him.  He  smiled  back.  It  was  like 
a  dream.  After  his  long  seclusion  it  was  difficult  to  believe 
it  could  be  true.  The  open  air,  the  perfume  of  the  leaves 
they  were  wading  through,  the  silver  bark  of  the  birches 
and  the  blue  peeps  of  the  sky  between,  and  then  Glory 
walking  with  her  graceful  motion,  and  laugliing  and  sing- 
ing by  his  side  !  "  I  shall  wake  up  in  a  minute,"  he  thought, 
"I'm  sure  I  shall!" 

They  sang  one  song  together.  It  was  Lasses  and  Lads, 
and  to  make  themselves  think  it  was  the  old  time  back  again 
they  took  each  other's  hands  and  swung  them  to  the  tune. 
He  felt  her  clasp  like  milk  coui'sing  through  his  body,  and 
a  great  wave  of  tenderness  swept  up  his  hard  resolve  as  sea- 
wrack  is  thrown  up  after  a  storm.  "  She  is  here ;  we  are 
together ;  why  trouble  about  anything  more  ? "  and  the  time 
flew  by. 

But  their  voices  went  wrong  immediately,  and  they  were 
soon  in  difficulties.  Tlien  she  laughed,  and  they  began 
again ;  but  they  could  not  keep  together,  and  as  often  as 
they  tried  they  failed.  "Ah,  it's  not  like  the  old  days  !"  he 
thought,  and  a  mood  of  sadness  came  over  him.  He  had 
begun  to  observe  in  Glory  the  trace  of  the  life  she  had  passed 
through — words,  phrases,  ideas,  snatches  of  slang,  touches  of 
moods  which  had  the  note  of  a  slight  vulgarity.  When  the 
dog  took  a  bone  uninvited  she  cried  :  "  It's  a  click  ;  you've 
sneaked  it "  ;  when  John  broke  down  in  the  singing  she  told 
him  to  "  chuck  it  off  the  chest "  ;  and  when  he  stopped  alto- 
gether she  called  him  glum,  and  said  she  would  "  do  it  on 
her  own." 

"  "Why  does  he  look  so  sorrowful  ? "  she  thought,  and 
telling  herself  that  this  came  to  people  w^ho  were  much 
alone,  she  rattled  on  more  recklessly  than.before. 

She  talked  of  the  life  of  the  music  hall,  the  life  at  "  the 
back,"  glorifying  it  by  a  tone  of  apology.  It  was  all  hurry- 
scurry,  slap,  dash,  and  drive  ;  no  time  to  consider  effects  ;  a 
succession  of  last  acts  and  first  nights ;  so  it  was  really 
liarder  to  be  a  nnisic-hall  woman  than  a  regular  actress. 
And  the  music-hall  woman  was  no  worse  than  other  women 
—considering.  Had  he  seen  their  ballet  ?  It  was  fetching. 
Such  pages  !    Simply  darlings  !    They  were  the  proud  young 


THE   DEVIL'S  ACRE.  299 

birds  of  paradise  whom  toffs  like  those  Guards  came  to  see, 
and  it  was  fun  to  see  them  pluming  and  preening  themselves 
at  the  back,  each  for  the  eyes  of  her  own  particular  lord  in 
the  stalls.  Thus  she  flung  out  unfamiliar  notes,  hardly- 
knowing  their  purport,  but  to  John  they  were  as  slimy 
creatures  out  of  the  social  mire  she  had  struggled  through. 
O  London !  London  !  Its  shadow  was  over  them  even 
there,  and  go  where  they  would,  they  could  never  escape 
from  it. 

His  former  thought  began  to  hang  about  him  again,  and 
he  asked  her  to  tell  him  what  had  happened  to  her  during 
his  absence. 

"  Shall  I  ? "  she  said.  "  Well,  I  brought  three  golden 
sovereigns  out  of  the  hospital  to  distribute  among  the  people 
of  London,  but,  bless  you,  they  went  nowhere." 

"  And  what  then  ?  " 

"  Then — then  Hope  was  a  good  breakfast  but  a  bad  sup- 
per, you  know.  But  shall  I  tell  you  all  ?  Yes,  yes,  yes,  I 
will." 

She  told  him  of  Mrs.  Jupe,  and  of  the  deception  she 
had  practised  upon  her  people,  and  he  turned  his  head  that 
he  might  not  see  her  tears.  She  told  him  of  the  "Three 
Graces,"  and  of  the  stage  manager — she  called  him  the 
"stage  damager  " — and  then  she  turned  her  head  that  she 
might  hide  her  shame.  She  told  him  of  Josephs,  the  bogus 
agent,  and  his  face  grew  hard  and  his  brown  eyes  looked 
black. 

"  And  where  did  you  say  his  place  was  ?  "  he  asked  in  a 
voice  that  vibrated  and  broke. 

"  I  didn't  say,"  she  answered  with  a  laugh  and  a  tear. 

She  told  him  of  Aggie,  anA  of  the  foreign  clubs,  and  of 
Koenig,  and  of  the  dinner  party  at  the  Home  Secretary's, 
and  then  she  skipped  a  step  and  cried  : 

"  Ding,  dong,  dended, 
My  tale's  ended." 

"  And  was  it  there  you  met  Mr.  Drake  again  ? " 

She  replied  with  a  nod. 

"  Never  having  seen  him  in  the  meantime  ?  " 

She  pursed  her  lips  and  shook  her  head.     "That's  all 


300  THE   CHRISTIAN. 

over  now,  and  what  matter  ?  I  likes  to  be  jolly  and  I  all- 
wis  is  ! " 

"  But  is  it  all  over  ?  "  he  said,  and  lie  looked  at  her  again 
with  the  deep  look  that  had  cut  into  her  heart. 

"  He's  going  to  say  something,"  she  thought,  and  she 
began  to  laugh,  but  with  a  faint  tremor,  and  giving  the  dog 
her  parasol  to  carry  in  his  mouth,  she  took  off  her  hat, 
swung  it  in  her  hand  by  the  brim,  and  set  off  to  run. 

Tliere  was  the  light  shimmer  of  a  pool  at  a  level  below, 
where  the  water  had  drained  to  a  bottom  and  was  inclosed 
by  beeches.  The  trees  seemed  to  hang  over  it  with  out- 
stretched wings,  like  birds  about  to  alight,  and  round  its 
banks  there  were  plots  of  violets  which  filled  the  air  with 
their  fragrance.  It  was  a  God-blest  bit  of  ground,  and 
when  he  came  up  with  her  she  was  standing  at  the  edge  of 
the  marshy  mei'e  panting  and  on  the  point  of  tears,  and 
saying,  in  a  whisper,  "  Oh,  how  beautiful !  " 

"  But  however  am  I  to  get  across  ? "  she  cried,  looking 
with  mock  terror  on  the  two  inches  of  water  that  barely 
covered  the  grass,  and  at  the  pretty  red  shoes  that  peeped 
from  under  her  dress. 

Then  something  extraordinary  occurred.  She  hardly 
knew  what  was  happening  until  it  was  over.  Without  a 
word,  without  a  smile,  he  lifted  her  up  in  his  arms  and  car- 
ried her  to  the  other  side.  She  felt  helpless  like  a  child,  as 
if  suddenly  she  belonged  to  herself  no  longer.  Her  head 
had  fallen  on  his  shoulder  and  her  heart  was  beating  against 
his  breast.  Or  was  it  his  heart  that  was  beating  ?  When 
he  put  her  down  she  was  afraid  she  was  going  to  cry,  so  she 
began  to  laugh  and  to  say  they  mustn't  lose  that  7.30  to 
London  or  the  "  rag  "  would  he  rolling  up  without  her  and 
the  "stage  damager"  would  be  using  "cuss  words." 

They  had  to  pass  the  old  church  of  Stoke  Pogis  on  the 
way  back  to  the  town,  and  after  looking  at  its  timber  belfry 
and  steeple  John  suggested  that  they  should  see  the  inside. 
The  sexton  was  found  working  in  the  garden  at  the  side  of 
his  house,  and  he  went  indoors  for  the  keys.  "  Hei*e  they 
be,  sir,  and  you  being  a  pa'son  I'll  bide  in  the  orchet.  You 
and  your  young  missus  can  look  at  the  church  without  me. 
'A  b'lieve  'a  hev  seed  it  afore,"  he  said  with  a  twinkle. 


THE   DEV'IL'S  ACRE.  301 

The  church  was  dark  and  cool.  There  was  a  window 
representing  an  angel  ascending  to  heaven  against  a  deep 
blue  sky,  and  a  squix'e's  pew  furnished  like  a  box  at  the 
theatre,  with  a  carpet  and  even  a  stove.  The  chairs  in  the 
front  bore  family  crests,  and  behind  them  were  infex'ior 
chairs,  without  crests,  for  the  servants.  John  had  opened 
the  little  modern  organ  and  begun  to  play.  After  a  while 
he  began  to  sing.  He  sang  Nazareth,  and  his  voice  filled 
the  empty  church  and  went  up  into  the  gloom  of  the  roof, 
and  echoed  and  returned,  and  it  was  ahnost  as  if  another 
voice  were  singing  there. 

Glory  stood  by  his  side  and  listened  ;  a  wonderful  peace 
had  come  down  on  her.  Then  the  emotion  that  vibrated  in 
his  deep  voice  made  something  surge  up  to  her  throat. 
"  Life  for  evermore  !  Life  for  evermore  ! "  All  at  once  she 
began  to  weep,  to  sob,  and  to  laugh  in  a  breath,  and  he 
stopped. 

'' How  ridiculous  I  am  to-day!  You'll  think  me  a  ma- 
niac," she  said.  But  he  only  took  her  hand  as  if  she  had 
been  a  child  and  led-  her  out  of  the  church. 

Insensibly  the  day  had  passed  into  evening,  and  the 
horizontal  rays  of  the  sun  were  dazzling  their  eyes  as  they 
returned  to  the  hotel  for  tea.  In  giving  orders  for  this 
meal  they  had  left  the  illustrated  weekly  behind,  and  it 
was  now  clear  from  the  easy  smiles  that  greeted  them  that 
the  paper  had  been  looked  at  and  Glory  identified.  The 
room  was  ready,  with  the  table  laid,  the  window  closed,  and 
a  fire  of  wood  in  the  dog  grate,  for  the  chill  of  the  evening 
was  beginning  to  be  felt.  And  to  make  him  forget  what 
had  happened  at  the  church  she  put  on  a  look  of  forced 
gaiety  and  talked  rapidly,  frivolously,  and  at  random.  The 
fresh  air  had  given  her  such  a  colour  that  they  would  '  fair- 
ly eat  her  to-night.'  How  tired  she  was,  though !  But  a 
cup  of  tea  would  exhilarate  her  "like  a  Johnnie's  first 
whisky  and  soda  in  bed." 

He  looked  at  her  with  his  grave  face ;  every  word  was 
cutting  him  like  a  knife.  "  So  you  didn't  tell  the  old  folks 
at  Glenfaba  about  the  hospital  until  later  ? " 

"  No.  Have  a  cup  of  the  '  girl '  ?  They  call  champagne 
*  the  boy  '  at  '  the  back,'  so  I  call  tea  '  the  girl,'  you  know." 


302  THE   CHRISTIAN. 

"And  when  did  you  tell  them  about  the  music  hall  ? " 

"  Yesterday.  '  Muffins  ? '  "  and  as  she  held  out  the  plate 
she  waggled  the  wrist  of  her  other  hand,  and  mimicked  the 
cry  of  the  muffin  man. 

"  Not  until  yesterday  ?  " 

She  began  to  excuse  herself.  What  was  the  use  of  tak- 
ing people  by  surprise  ?  And  then  good  people  were  some- 
times so  easily  shocked  !  Education  and  upbringing,  and 
prejudices  and  even  blood 

"  Gloi'y,"  he  said,  "  if  you  are  ashamed  of  this  life,  be- 
lieve me  it  is  not  a  right  one." 

"  Ashamed  ?  Why  should  I  be  ashamed  ?  Everybody 
is  saying  how  proud  I  should  be." 

She  spoke  feverishly,  and  by  a  sudden  impulse  she 
plucked  up  the  pai>er,  but  as  suddenly  let  it  drop  again,  for, 
looking  at  his  grave  face,  her  little  fame  seemed  to  shrivel 

up.     "  But  give  a  dog  a  bad  name  you  know You  were 

there  on  Monday  night.  Did  you  see  anything,  now — any- 
thing in  the  performance " 

"  I  saw  the  audience,  Glory  ;  that  was  enough  for  me.  It 
is  impossible  for  a  girl  to  live  long  in  an  atmosphere  like 
that  and  be  a  good  Avoman.  "Yes,  my  child,  impossible! 
God  forbid  that  I  should  sit  in  judgment  on  any  man, 
still  less  on  any  woman  ! — but  the  women  of  the  music  hall, 
do  they  remain  good  women  ?  Poor  souls,  they  are  placed 
in  a  position  so  false  that  it  would  require  extraordinary 
virtue  not  to  become  false  along  with  it !  And  the  whiter 
the  soul  that  is  dragged  through  that— that  mire,  the  more 
the  defilement.  The  audiences  at  such  places  don't  want  the 
white  soul,  they  don't  want  the  good  woman,  they  want  the 
woman  who  has  tasted  of  the  tree  of  good  and  evil.  You 
can  see  it  in  their  faces,  and  hear  it  in  their  laughter,  and 
measure  it  in  their  applause.  Oh,  I'm  only  a  priest,  but  I've 
seen  these  places  all  the  world  over,  and  I  know  what 
I'm  saying,  and  I  know  it's  true  and  you  know  it's  true, 
Glory " 

Glory  leaped  up  from  the  table  and  her  eyes  seemed  to 
emit  fire.  "  I  know  it's  hard  and  cruel  and  pitiless,  and,  since 
you  were  there  on  Monday  and  saw  how  kind  the  audience 
was  to  me,  it's  personal  and  untrue  as  well," 


THE   DEVIL'S  ACRE.  303 

But  her  voice  broke  and  slie  sat  down  again  and  said 
in  another  tone  :  "  But,  John,  it's  nearly  a  year,  you  know, 
since  we  saw  each  other  last,  and  isn't  it  a  pity  ?  Tell 
nie,  where  are  you  living  now  ?  Have  you  made  your 
plans  for  the  future  ?  Oh,  who  do  you  think  was  with 
me  just  before  you  called  yesterday  ?  Polly — Polly  Love, 
you  remember  !  She's  grown  stout  and  plainer,  poor  thing, 
and  I  was  so  sorry Her  brother  was  in  your  Brother- 
hood, wasn't  he  ?  Is  he  as  strangely  fond  of  her  as  ever  ? 
Is  he  ?  Eh  ?  Don't  you  understand  ?  Polly's  brother,  I 
mean  ? " 

"He's  dead.  Glory.  Yes,  dead.  He  died  a  month  ago. 
Poor  boy,  he  died  broken-hearted  !  He  had  come  to  hear  of 
his  sister's  trouble  at  the  hospital.  I  was  to  blame  for  that. 
He  never  looked  up  again." 

There  was  silence ;  both  were  gazing  into  the  fire,  and 
Glory's  mouth  was  quivering.  All  at  once  she  said :  "  John 
— John  Storm,  why  can't  you  understand  that  it's  not  the 
same  with  me  as  with  other  women  ?  There  seem  to  be 
two  women  in  me  always.  After  I  left  the  hospital  I  went 
through  a  good  deal.  Nobody  will  ever  know  how  much  I 
went  through.  But  even  at  the  worst,  somehow  I  seemed 
to  enjoy  and  rejoice  in  everything.  Things  happened  that 
made  me  cry,  but  there  was  another  me  that  was  laughing. 
And  that's  how  it  is  with  the  life  I  am  living  now.  It  is 
not  I  myself  that  go  through  this— this  mire,  as  you  call 
it,  it's  only  my  other  self,  my  lower  self,  if  you  like,  but  I 
am  not  touched  by  it  at  all.  Don't  you  see  that  ?  Don't 
you,  now  ? " 

"  There  are  professions  which  are  a  source  of  temptation, 

and  talents  that  are  a  snare.  Glory " 

"  I  see,  I  see  what  you  mean.  There  are  not  many  ways 
a  woman  can  succeed  in— that's  the  cruelty  of  things.  But 
there  are  a  few,  and  I've  choaen  the  one  I'm  fit  for.  And 
now,  now  that  I've  escaped  from  all  that  misery,  that  mean- 
ness, and  have  brought  the  eyes  of  London  upon  me,  and 
the  world  is  full  of  smiles  for  me,  and  sunshine,  and  I  am 
happy,  you  come  at  last,  you  that  I  couldn't  find  when  I 
wanted  you  so  much— oh.  so  much  !— because  you  had  for- 
gotten me  ;  you  come  to  me  out  of  a  darkness  like  the  grave 


304  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

and  tell  me  to  give  it  all  up.  Yes,  yes,  yes,  that's  what  you 
mean — give  it  all  up  !     Oh,  it  s  cruel !  " 

She  covered  her  face  with  her  hands  and  sobbed.  He 
bent  over  her  with  a  sorrowful  face  and  said,  "  My  child,  if 
I  have  come  out  of  a  darkness  as  of  the  grave  it  is  because  I 
had  not  forgotten  you  there,  but  was  thinking  of  you  every 
day  and  hour." 

Her  sobbing  ceased,  but  the  tears  still  flowed  through  her 
fingers. 

"  Before  that  i)Oor  lad  abandoned  hope  he  came  out  into 
the  world  too — stole  out — thinking  to  find  his  lost  one.  I 
told  him  to  look  for  you  first,  and  he  went  to  the  hospital." 

"  I  saw  him." 

"You!" 

"It  was  on  New  Year's  Eve.  He  passed  me  in  the 
street." 

"  Ah !  Well,  he  came  back  anyway,  and  said  you  were 
gone,  and  all  trace  of  you  was  lost.  Did  I  forget  you  after 
that.  Glory?" 

His  husky  voice  broke  off  suddenly,  and  he  rose  with  a 
look  of  wretchedness.  "  You  are  right,  there  are  two  selves 
in  you,  and  the  higher  self  is  so  pure,  so  strong,  so  unselfish, 

so  noble Oh,  I  am  sure  of  it.  Glory  !     Only  there's  no 

one  to  speak  to  it,  no  one.     I  try,  but  I  can  not." 

She  was  still  crying  behind  her  hands. 

"  And  meanwhile  the  lower  self — there  are  only  too  many 
to  speak  to  that " 

Her  hands  came  down  from  her  disordered  face  and  she 
said,  "  I  know  whom  you  mean." 

"  I  mean  the  Avorld." 

"  No,  indeed,  you  mean  Mr.  Drake.  But  you  are  mis- 
taken. Mr.  Drake  has  been  a  good  friend  to  me,  but  lie  isn't 
anything  else,  and  doesn't  want  to  be.  Can't  you  see  that 
when  you  tliink  of  me  and  talk  of  me  as  you  would  of  some 
other  women  you  hurt  me  and  degrade  me,  and  I  can  not 
bear  it  ?  You  see  I  am  crying  again — goodness  knows  why. 
But  I  sha'n't  give  up  my  profession.  The  idea  of  such  a 
tiling !  It's  ridiculous  !  Think  of  Glory  in  a  convent !  One 
of  the  poor  Clares  perhaps  ! "  . 

"  Hush ! " 


THE  DEVIL'S  ACRE.  305 

"  Or  back  in  the  island  serving  out  sewing  at  a  mothers' 
meeting !     Give  it  up  !     Indeed  I  vi^on't !  " 

"  You  shall  and  you  must !  " 

"  Who'll  make  me  ? " 

"  I  will !  " 

Then  she  laughed  out  wildly,  but  stopped  on  the  instant 
and  looked  up  at  him  with  glistening  eyes.  An  intense 
blush  came  over  her  face,  and  her  looks  grew  bright  as  his 
grew  fierce.  A  moment  afterward  the  waiting  maid,  with  an 
inquisitive  expression,  was  clearing  the  table  and  keeping  a 
smile  in  reserve  for  "  the  lovers'  quarrel ! " 

Some  of  the  Guardsmen  were  in  the  train  going  back, 
and  at  the  next  station  they  changed  to  the  carriage  in  which 
Glory  and  John  were  sitting.  Apparently  they  had  dined 
before  leaving  their  club  at  Maidenhead,  and  they  talked  at 
Glory  with  covert  smiles.  "Going  to  the  Colosseum  to- 
night?" said  one.  "If  there's  time,"  said  another.  "Oh, 
time  enough.  The  attraction  doesn't  begin  till  ten,  don't 
you  know,  and  nobody  goes  before."  "  Tell  me  she's  rip- 
I)in'."    "Good — deuced  good." 

Glory  was  sitting  with  her  back  to  the  engine  drumming 
lightly  on  the  window  and  looking  out  at  the  setting  sun. 
At  first  she  felt  a  certain  shame  at  the  obvious  references, 
but,  piqued  at  John's  silence,  she  began  to  take  pi'ide  in 
them,  and  shot  glances  at  him  from  under  half-closed  eye- 
lids. John  was  sitting  opposite  with  his  arms  folded.  At 
the  talk  of  the  men  he  felt  his  hands  contract  and  his  lips 
grow  cold  with  the  feeling  that  Glory  belonged  to  every- 
body now  and  was  common  property.  Once  or  twice  he 
looked  at  them  and  became  conscious  of  an  impression,  which 
had  floated  about  him  since  he  left  the  Brotlierhood,  that 
nearly  every  face  he  saw  bore  the  hideous  stamp  of  self- 
indulgence  and  sensuality. 

But  the  noises  of  the  train  helped  "him  not  to  hear,  and 
he  looked  out  for  London.  It  lay  before  them  under  a  can- 
opy of  smoke,  and  now  and  then  a  shaft  f i-om  the  setting  sun 
lit  up  a  glass  roof  and  it  glittered  like  a  sinister  eye.  Then 
there  came  from  afar,  above  the  creaking  and  groaning  of 
the  wheels  and  the  whistle  of  the  engine,  the  deep,  multitudi- 
nous murmur  of  that  distant  sea.    The  mighty  tide  was  rising 


306  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

and  coming  up  to  meet  them.  Presently  they  were  dashing 
into  the  midst  of  it,  and  everything  was  drowned  in  the 
sjilasli  and  roar. 

The  Giiardsmen,  being  on  the  platform  side,  alighted 
fix'st,  and  on  going  off  they  bowed  to  Glory  with  rather  more 
than  easy  manners.  A  dash  of  the  devil  prompted  her  to 
respond  demonstratively,  but  John  had  risen  and  was  tak- 
ing off  his  hat  to  the  men.  and  they  were  going  away  dis- 
comfited. Gloiy  was  proud  of  him — he  was  a  man  and  a 
gentleman. 

He  put  her  into  a  hansom  under  the  lamps  outside  the 
station,  and  her  face  was  lit  up,  but  she  patted  the  dog  and 
said  :  "  You  have  vexed  me  and  you  needn't  come  to  see  me 
again.  I  shall  not  sing  properly  this  evening  or  sleep  to- 
night at  all,  if  that  is  any  satisfaction  to  you,  so  you  needn't 
trouble  to  inquire." 

When  he  reached  home  Mrs.  Callender  told  him  of  a 
shocking  occurrence  at  the  fashionable  wedding  at  All 
Saints  that  morning.  A  young  woman  had  committed  sui- 
cide during  the  ceremony,  and  it  turned  out  to  be  the  poor 
girl  who  had  been  dismissed  from  the  hospital. 

John  Storm  remembered  Brother  Paul.  "  I  must  bury 
her,"  he  thought. 


V. 

Glory  sang  that  night  with  extraordinary  vivacity  and 
charm  and  was  called  back  again  and  again.  Going  home 
in  the  cab  she  tried  to  live  through  the  day  afresh — every 
step,  every  act,  every  word,  down  to  that  triumphant  "  I 
will."  Her  thoughts  swayed  as  with  the  swaying  of  the 
hansom,  but  sometimes  the  thunderous  applause  of  the  audi- 
ence broke  in,  and  tlien  she  had  to  remember  where  she  had 
left  off.  She  could  feel  tliat  beating  against  her  breast  still, 
and  even  smell  the  violets  that  grew  by  the  pool.  He  had 
told  her  to  give  up  everything,  and  there  was  an  exquisite 
thrill  in  the  thought  that  perhaps  some  day  she  would  an- 
nihilate herself  and  all  her  ambitions,  and — who  knows 
what  then  ? 


THE  DEVIL'S  ACRE.  307 

This  mood  lasted  until  Monday  morning,  when  she  was 
sitting  in  her  room,  dressing  very  slowly  and  smiling  at 
herself  in  the  glass,  when  the  Cockney  maid  came  in  with 
a  newspaper  which  her  master  had  sent  uj)  on  account  of  its 
long  report  of  the  wedding. 

"  The  Church  of  All  Saints  was  crowded  with  a  fashion- 
able congregation,  among  whom  were  many  notable  persons 
in  the  world  of  politics  and  societj",  including  the  father  of 
the  bridegroom,  the  Duke  of  and  his  brother,  the  Mar- 
quis of .  An  arch  of  palms  crossed  the  nave  at  the  en- 
trance to  the  chancel,  and  festoons  of  rare  flow^ers  were  sus- 
pended from  the  rails  of  the  handsome  screen.  The  altar 
and  the  table  of  the  commandments  were  almost  obscured 
by  the  wreaths  of  exotics  that  hung  over  them,  and  the  col- 
umns of  the  colonnade,  the  font  and  the  offertory  boxes 
were  similarly  buried  in  rich  and  lovely  blossom. 

"  Thanks  to  an  informal  rehearsal  some  days  before,  the 
ceremony  went  off  without  a  hitch.  The  officiating  clergy 
were  the  Venerable  Archdeacon  Wealthy,  D.  D.,  assisted  by 
the  Rev.  Josiah  Golightly  and  other  members  of  the  numer- 
ous staff  of  All  Saints.  The  service,  which  was  fully  choral, 
was  under  the  able  direction  of  the  well-known  organist  and 
choirmaster,  Mr.  Carl  Koenig,  F.  E.  C.  O.,  and  the  choir  con- 
sisted of  twenty  adult  and  forty  boy  voices.  On  the  arrival 
of  the  bride  a  procession  was  formed  at  the  west  entrance 
and  proceeded  up  to  the  chancel,  singing  '  The  voice  that 
breathed  o'er  Eden.'  " 

"  Poor  Polly  !  "  thought  Glory. 

"The  bride  wore  a  duchess  satin  gown  trimmed  with 
chiffon  and  Brussels  lace,  and  having  a  long  train  hung 
from  the  shoulders.  Her  tulle  veil  was  fastened  with  a  ruby 
brooch  and  with  sprays  of  orange  blossom  sent  specially 
from  the  Riviera,  and  her  necklace  consisted  of  a  rope  of 
gz'aduated  pearls  fully  a  yard  long,  understood  to  have  be- 
longed to  the  jewel  case  of  Catharine  of  Russia.  She  car- 
ried a  bouquet  of  flowers  (the  gift  of  the  bridegroom)  brought 
from  Florida,  the  American  home  of  her  family.    The  bride's 

mother  wore The  bridesmaids  were  dressed Mr. 

Horatio  Drake  acted  as  best  man " 

Gloiy  drew  her  breath  as  with  a  spasm  and  threw  down 


308  THE   CHRISTIAN. 

the  newspaper.  How  blind  slie  had  been,  how  vain,  how 
foolish  !  She  had  told  John  Storm  that  Drake  Avas  only  a 
good  friend  to  her,  meaning  him  to  undex'stand  that  thus  far 
she  allowed  him  to  go  and  no  farther.  But  there  was  a 
whole  realm  of  his  life  into  which  he  did  not  ask  her  to 
exiter.  The  "  notable  i^ersons  ix\  politics  and  society,"  "  the 
bridesmaids,"  these  made  up  his  r^al  sphere,  his  serious 
scene.  Other  women  were  his  friends,  companions,  equals, 
intimates,  and  when  he  stood  in  the  eye  of  the  world  it  was 
they  who  stood  beside  him.  And  she  ?  She  was  his  hobby. 
He  came  to  her  in  his  off  hours.  She  filled  up  the  under 
side  of  his  life. 

With  a  crushing  sense  of  humiliation  she  was  folding  up 
the  newspaper  to  send  it  downstaii's  when  her  eye  was  ar- 
rested by  a  paragraph  in  small  type  in  the  corner.  It  was 
headed  "Shocking  occurrence  at  a  fashionable  wedding." 

"  Oh,  good  gracious  !  "  she  cried.  A  glance  had  shown 
her  what  it  was.     It  was  a  report  of  Polly's  suicide. 

"  At  a  fashionable  wedding  at  a  West-End  church  on 
Saturday  "  (no  names)  "  a  young  woman  who  had  been  sit- 
ting in  the  nave  was  seen  to  rise  and  attempt  to  step  into 
the  aisle,  as  if  with  the  intention  of  crushing  her  way  out, 
when  she  fell  back  in  convulsions,  and  on  being  removed 
was  found  to  be  dead.  Happily,  the  attention  of  the  con- 
gregation was  at  the  moment  directed  to  the  bride  and  bride- 
groom, who  were  returning  from  the  vestry  with  the  bi'idal 
party  behind  them,  and  thus  tlie  painful  incident  made  no 
sensation  among  the  crowded  congi'egation.  The  body  was 
removed  to  the  parish  mortuary,  and  from  subsequent  in- 
quiries it  transpired  that  death  had  been  due  to  poison  self- 
administered,  and  that  the  deceased  was  Elizabeth  Anne 
Love  (twenty-four),  of  no  occupation,  but  formerly  a  nurse 
— a  circumstance  which  had  enabled  her  to  procure  half  an 
ounce  of  liquor  strychnina?  on  her  own  signature  at  a  chem- 
ist's where  she  had  been  known." 

"  0  God  !     O  God  !  "     Glory  undei'stood  everything  now. 

"  I've  a  great  mind  to  go  to  All  Saints  and  shame  them 

Oh,  it  isn't  the  police  I'm  afraid  of."  Polly's  purpose  was 
clear.  She  liad  intended  to  fall  dead  at  tlie  feet  of  the  bride 
and  bridegroom  and  make  them  walk  over  her  body.    Poor, 


THE   DEVIL'S  ACRE.  3O9 

foolish,  ineffectual  Polly  !  Her  very  ghost  must  be  ashamed 
of  the  failure  of  her  revenge.  Not  a  ripple  of  sensation  on 
Saturday,  and  this  morning  only  a  few  obscure  lines  in 
little  print ! 

Oh,  it  was  hideous !  The  poor  thing's  vengeance  was 
theatrical  and  paltry,  but  what  of  the  man,  wherever  he 
was  ?  What  did  he  think  of  himself  now,  with  his  millions 
and  his  murder  ?    Yes,  his  murder,  for  what  else  was  it  ? 

An  hour  later  Glory  was  ringing  the  bell  of  a  little  house 
in  St.  John's  Wood  whereof  the  upper  blinds  were  drawn. 
The  grating  of  the  gax"den  door  slid  back  and  an  untidy  head 
looked  out. 

"  Well,  ma'am  ?  " 

"  Don't  you  remember  me,  Liza  ?  " 

"  Lawd,  yus,  miss  ! "  and  the  door  was  opened  immedi- 
ately ;  "  but  I  was  afeard  jou  was  one  o'  them  reportin' 
people,  and  my  orders  is  not  to  answer  no  questions."' 

"  Has  he  been  here,  then  ?  " 

"  Blesh  ye,  no,  miss  !  He's  on  'is  way  to  the  Continents. 
But  'is  friend  'as,  and  he's  settled  evei-ything  'andsome — I 
will  say  that  for  the  gentleman." 

Glory  felt  her  gall  rising ;  there  was  something  degi^ad- 
ing,  almost  disreputable,  even  in  the  loyalty  of  Drake's 
friendship. 

"  Fancy  my  not  knowing  you,  miss,  and  me  at  the 
moosic  'all  a  Tuesday  night !  I  'ope  you'll  excuse  the  lib- 
erty, but  I  did  laugh,  and  I  won't  say  but  I  shed  a  few  tears 
too.  Arranged  ?  Yes,  the  jury  and  the  coroner  and  every- 
think.  It's  to  be  at  twelve  o'clock,  so  you  may  think  I've 
'ad  my  'ands  full.  But  you'll  want  to  look  at  'er,  pore 
thing !  Go  up,  miss,  and  mind  yer  'ead  ;  there's  nobody  but 
'er  friends  with  'er  now." 

The  friends  proved  to  be  Betty  Belmont  and  her  dress- 
ing-room companions.  When  Glory  entered  they  showed 
no  surprise.  "  The  pore  child  told  us  all  about  you,"  said 
Betty ;  and  the  little  one  said :  "  It's  your  nyme  that's 
caught  on,  dear.  The  minute  I  heard  it  I  said  what  a  top- 
line  for  a  bill ! " 

It  was  the  same  little  bandbox  of  a  bedroom,  only  now 
it  was  darkened  and  Polly's  troubles  were  ovei-.    Tiiere  was 


310 


THE   CHRISTIAN. 


a  slio-htly  convulsed  look  about  the  mouth,  but  the  features 
were  otherwise  calm  and  childlike,  for  all  the  dead  are  inno- 
cent. 

The  three  women  with  demure  faces  were  sipping  Bene- 
dictine and  talking  among  themselves,  and  Polly's  pug  dog 
was  coiled  up  on  the  bare  bolster  and  snoring  audibly. 

"Pore  thing!  I  don't  know  how  she  could  'a  done  it. 
But  there,  that's  the  worst  of  this  life  !  It's  all  in  the  pres- 
ent and  leads  to  nothing  and  ain't  got  no  future."  "  What 
could  the  pore  thing  do?     She  wasn't  so  wonderful  pretty  ; 

and  then  men  like "     "  She  was  str'ight  with  him,  say 

what  yer  like.  Only  she  ought  to  been  more  patienter,  and 
she  needn't  'a  been  so  hard  on  the  lady,  neither."  "  She  had 
everything  the  heart  could  wish.  Look  at  her  rooms!  I 
wonder  who'll " 

Carriages  were  heard  outside,  and  two  or  three  men  came 
in  to  do  the  last  offices.  Glory  had  turned  her  face  away, 
but  behind  her  the  women  were  still  talking.  "Wait  a 
minute,  mister  !  .  .  .  What  a  lovely  ring  !  .  .  .  I  wish  I  had 
a  keepsake  to  remember  her  by."  "Well,  and  why  not? 
She  won't  want " 

Glory  felt  as  if  she  was  choking,  but  Polly's  pug  dog 
had  been  awakened  by  the  commotion  and  was  beginning 
to  howl,  so  she  took  up  the  little  mourner  and  cai'ried  it  out. 
An  organ-man  somewhere  near  Avas  playing  Sweet  Marie. 

The  funeral  was  at  Kensal  Green,  and  the  four  girls 
were  the  only  followers.  The  coroner's  verdict  being  felo- 
de-se,  the  body  Avas  not  taken  into  the  chapel,  but  a  clergyman 
met  it  at  the  gate  and  led  the  way  to  the  grave.  Walking 
with  her  head  down  and  the  dog  under  her  arm.  Glory  had 
not  seen  him  at  first,  but  when  he  began  with  the  tremen- 
dous words,  "  I  am  the  resurrection  and  the  life,"  she  caught 
her  breath  and  looked  up.     It  was  John  Storm. 

While  they  were  in  the  carriage  the  clouds  had  been 
gathering,  and  now  some  spots  of  rain  were  falling.  When 
the  bearei's  had  laid  down  their  burden  the  spots  were  large 
and  frequent,  and  all  save  one  of  the  men  turned  and  went 
back  to  the  shelter  of  the  porch.  The  three  women  looked 
at  each  other,  and  one  of  them  muttered  something  about 
"the  dead  and  the  living,"  and  then  the  little  lady  stole 


THE   DEVIL'S  ACKE.  311 

away.  After  a  moment  the  tall  one  followed  her,  and  from 
shame  of  heing  ashamed  the  third  one  went  oft'  also. 

By  this  time  the  rain  was  falling  in  a  sharp  shovvej",  and 
John  Storm,  who  was  bareheaded,  had  opened  his  book  and 
begun  to  read :  "  Forasmucli  as  it  hath  pleased  Almighty 
God  of  his  great  mercy  to  taka  unto  himself  the  soul  of  our 
dear  sister  departed " 

Then  he  saw  that  Glory  was  alone  by  the  graveside,  and 
his  voice  faltered  and  almost  failed  him.  It  faltered  again, 
and  he  halted  when  he  came  to  the  "  sure  and  certain  hope," 
but  after  a  moment  it  quivered  and  filled  out  and  seemed  to 
say,  "  Which  of  us  can  sound  the  depths  of  God's  design  ? " 
After  the  "  maimed  rites  "  were  over,  John  Storm  went  back 
to  the  chapel  to  remove  his  surplice,  and  when  he  returned 
to  the  grave  Glory  was  gone. 

She  sang  as  usual  at  the  music  hall  that  night,  but  with 
a  heavy  heart.  The  difference  communicated  itself  to  the 
audience,  and  the  unanimous  applause  which  had  greeted 
her  before  frayed  off  at  length  into  separate  hand-claps. 
Crossing  the  stage  to  her  dressing-room  she  met  Koenig, 
who  came  to  conduct  for  her,  and  he  said  : 

"  Not  quite  yourself  to-night,  my  dear,  eh  ? " 

Going  home  in  the  hansom,  Polly's  dog  cuddled  up  with 
the  old  sympathy  to  the  new  mistress,  and  seemed  to  be 
making  the  best  of  things.  The  household  was  asleep,  and 
Glory  let  herself  in  with  a  latch-key.  Her  cold  supper  was 
laid  ready,  and  a  letter  was  lying  under  the  turned-down 
lamp.  It  was  from  her  grandfather,  and  had  been  written 
after  church  on  Sunday  night : 

"  It  is  now  so  long — moi'e  than  a  year — since  I  saw  my 
runaway  and  truant  that,  notwithstanding  the  protests  of 
Aunt  Anna  and  the  forebodings  of  Aunt  Eachel,  I  have  de- 
termined to  give  my  old  legs  a  journey  and  my  old  eyes  a 
treat.  Therefore  take  warning  that  I  intend  to  come  up  to 
London  forthwith,  that  I  may  see  the  great  city  for  the  first 
time  in  my  life,  and— which  is  better— my  little  grand- 
daughter among  all  her  new  friends  and  in  the  midst  of  her 
great  prosperity." 

At  the  foot  of  this  there  was  a  postscript  from  Aunt 
Rachel,  hastily  scrawled  in  pencil : 


312  THE   CHRISTIAN. 

"  Take  no  notice  of  this.  He  is  far  too  weak  to  travel, 
and  indeed  he  is  really  failing ;  but  your  letter,  which 
reached  us  last  night,  has  so  troubled  him  ever  since  that 
he  can't  take  rest  for  thinking  of  it." 

It  was  the  last  straw.  Before  finishing  the  letter  or 
taking  off  her  hat,  Glory  took  up  a  telegi'aph  form  and 
wrote,  "  Postpone  journey — am  returning  home  to-mor- 
row." Then  she  heard  Koenig  letting  himself  into  the 
house,  and  going  downstairs  she  said  : 

"  Will  you  take  this  message  to  the  telegraph  office  for 
me,  please?" 

"  Vhy,  of  course  I  vill,  and  den  ve'll  have  supper  togeder 
— look  !  "  and  he  laughed  and  opened  a  paper  and  drew  out 
a  string  of  sausages. 

"Mr.  Koenig,"  she  said,  "you  were  right.  I  was  not  my- 
self to-night.     I  want  a  rest,  and  I  propose  to  take  one." 

As  Glory  returned  upstairs  she  heard  stammerings,  sput- 
terings,  and  swearings  behind  her  about  managers,  engage- 
ments, announcements,  geniuses,  children,  and  other  matters. 
Back  in  her  room  she  lay  down  on  the  floor,  with  her  face 
in  her  hands,  and  sobbed.  Then  Koenig  appeared,  panting 
and  saying  :  "  Dere  !  I  knew  vhat  vould  happen  !  Here's  a 
pretty  ting  !  And  dat's  vhy  Mr.  Drake  told  me  to  deny  you 
to  de  man.     De  brute,  de  beast,  de  dirty  son  of  a  monk !  " 

But  Gloi'y  had  leaped  up  with  eyes  of  fii'e,  and  was  cry- 
ing :  "  How  dare  you,  sir  ?     Out  of  my  room  this  instant !  " 

"  Mein  Gott !  It's  a  divil !  "  Koenig  was  muttering  like 
a  servant  as  he  went  downstairs.  He  went  out  to  the  tele- 
graph office  and  came  back,  and  then  Glory  heard  him  fry- 
ing his  sausages  on  the  dining-room  fire. 

The  night  was  far  gone  when  she  pushed  aside  her  un- 
touched supper,  and,  wiping  her  eyes,  that  she  might  see 
properly,  sat  down  to  write  a  letter. 

"  Dear  John  Storm  (monk,  monster,  or  whatever  it  is !) : 
I  trust  it  will  be  counted  to  me  for  righteousness  that  I  am 
doing  your  bidding  and  giving  up  my  profession — for  the 
present. 

"  Between  a  woman's  '  yes '  and  '  no  ' 
There  isn't  room  for  a  pin  to  go, 


THE  DEVIL'S  ACRE.  3I3 

wliicli  is  very  foolish  of  her  in  this  instance,  considering 
that  she  is  earning-  various  pounds  a  night  and  has  nothing 
but  Providence  to  fall  back  upon.  I  have  told  my  jailer  I 
must  have  my  liberty,  and,  being  a  man  of  like  passions 
with  yourself,  he  has  been  busy  blaspheming  in  the  parlour 
downstairs.  I  trust  virtue  will  be  its  own  reward,  for  I 
dare  say  it  is  all  I  shall  ever  get.  If  I  were  Narcissus  I 
should  fall  in  love  with  myself  to-day,  having  shown  an 
obedience  to  tyranny  which  is  beautiful  and  worthy  of  the 
heroic  age.  But  to-morrow  morning  I  go  back  to  the  '  oilan,' 
and  it  will  be  so  nice  up  there  without  anybody  and  all 
alone  ! " 

She  was  laughing  softly  to  herself  as  she  wrote,  and 
catching  her  breath  with  a  little  sob  at  intervals. 

"  A  letter  now  and  then  is  profitable  to  the  soul  of  man 
— and — woman  ;  but  you  must  not  expect  to  hear  from  ?we, 
and  as  for  you,  though  you  have  resurrected  yourself,  I  sup- 
pose a  tyrant  of  your  opinions  will  continue  the  Benedictine 
rule  which  compels  you  to  hold  your  peace — and  other 
things.  I  am  engaged  to  breakfast  with  a  nice  girl  named 
Glory  Quayle  to-morrow  morning — that  is  to  say,  this  morn- 
ing— at  Euston  Station  at  a  quarter  to  seven,  but  happily 
this  letter  won't  reach  you  until  7.30,  so  111  just  escape  in- 
terruption." 

The  house  was  still  and  the  streets  were  quiet,  not  even  a 
cab  going  along. 

"  Good-bye  !  I've  realized — a  dog  !  It's  a  pug,  and  there- 
fore, like  somebody  else,  it  always  looks  black  at  me,  though 
I  suspect  its  father  married  beneath  him,  for  it  talks  a  good 
deal,  and  evidently  hasn't  been  brought  up  in  a  Brother- 
hood. Therefore,  being  a  '  female,'  I  intend  to  call  it  Aunt 
Anna — except  when  the  original  is  about.  Aunt  Anna  has 
been  hopping  up  and  down  the  room  at  my  heels  for  the 
last  hour,  evidently  thinking  that  a  rational  woman  would 
behave  better  if  she  went  to  bed.  Perhaps  I  shall  take  a 
leaf  out  of  your  book  and  '  comb  her  hair,'  when  I  get  her 
all  alone  in  the  train  to-morrow,  that  she  may  be  prepared 
for  the  new  sphere  to  which  it  has  pleased  Providence  to 
call  her. 

"  Good-bye  again !    I  see  the  lamps  of  Euston  running 
21 


314  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

after  each  other,  only  it's  the  other  way  this  time.  I  find 
there  is  something  that  seizes  you  with  a  fiercer  palpitation 
than  coming  into  a  great  and  wonderful  city,  and  that  is 
going  out  of  one.  Dear  old  London  !  After  all,  it  has  been 
very  good  to  me.  No  one,  it  seems  to  me,  loves  it  as  much 
as  I  do.  Only  somebody  thinks — well,  never  mind  !  Good- 
bye '  for  all ! '  Glory." 

At  seven  next  morning,  on  the  platform  at  Euston,  Glory 
was  standing  with  melancholy  eyes  at  the  door  of  a  first- 
class  compartment  watching  the  people  saunteinng  up  and 
down,  talking  in  groups  and  hurrying  to  and  fro,  when 
Drake  stepped  up  to  her.  She  did  not  ask  what  had  brought 
him — she  knew.  He  looked  fresh  and  handsome,  and  was 
faultlessly  dressed. 

"  You  are  doing  quite  right,  my  dear,"  he  said  in  a  cheer- 
ful voice.  "  Koenig  telegraphed,  and  I  came  to  see  you  oft". 
Don't  bother  about  the  theatre ;  leave  everything  to  me. 
Take  a  rest  after  your  great  excitement,  and  come  back 
bright  and  well." 

The  locomotive  whistled  and  began  to  pant,  the  smoke 
rose  to  the  roof,  the  train  started,  and  before  Glory  knew 
she  was  going  she  was  gone. 

Then  Drake  walked  to  his  club  and  wrote  this  postscript 
to  a  letter  to  Lord  Eobert  Ure,  at  the  Grand  Hotel,  Paris  : 
"  The  Parson  has  drawn  first  blood,  and  Gloria  has  gone 
home ! " 


VI. 

On  the  Sunday  evening  after  Glory's  departure  Jolin 
Storm,  with  the  bloodhound  running  by  his  side,  made  his 
way  to  Soho  in  search  of  the  mother  of  Brother  Andrew. 
He  had  come  to  a  corner  of  a  street  where  the  walls  of  an 
ugly  brick  church  ran  up  a  narrow  court  and  turned  into  a 
still  naiTower  lane  at  tbe  back.  The  church  had  been  for 
some  time  disused,  and  its  facade  was  half  covered  witli 
hoardings  and  plastered  with  placards  :  "  Brighton  and  Back, 
3s.  ''Lloyd's  News'' ;  "Coals,  Is.  a  cwt.";  and  "Barclay's 
Sparkling  Ales." 


THE  DEVIL'S  ACRE.  315 

There  was  a  tumult  in  the  court  and  lane.  In  the  midst 
of  a  close-packed  ring  of  excited  people,  chiefly  foreigners, 
shouting  in  half  the  languages  of  Europe,  a  tall  young 
Cockney,  with  bloated  face  and  eyes  aflame  with  drink,  was 
writhing  and  wrestling  and  cursing.  Sometimes  he  escaped 
from  the  grasp  of  the  man  who  held  him,  and  then  he  flung 
himself  against  the  closed  door  of  a  shop  which  stood  oppo- 
site, with  the  three  balls  of  the  pawnbroker  suspended  above 
it.  Somebody  within  the  shop  was  howling  for  help.  It 
was  a  woman's  voice,  and  the  louder  she  screamed  the  more 
violent  were  the  man's  efforts  to  beat  down  the  door  between 
tliem. 

As  John  Storm  stood  a  moment  looking  on,  some  one  on 

the  street  beside  him  said,  "  It's  a  d shyme."     It  was  a 

man  with  a  feeble,  ineffectual  face  and  the  appearance  of  a 
waiter.  Seeing  he  had  been  overheard,  the  man  stammered : 
"  Beg  parding,  sir  ;  but  they  may  well  say  '  when  the  Devil 
can't  come  hisself  'e  sends  'is  brother  Drink.'  "  Having  said 
this  he  began  to  move  along,  but  stopped  suddenly  on  seeing 
what  the  clergyman  with  the  dog  was  doing. 

John  Storm  was  pushing  his  way  through  the  crowd, 
and  his  black  figure  in  that  writhing  ring  of  undersized 
foreigners  looked  big  and  comman^ling.  "  What's  this  ? "  he 
was  saying  in  a  husky  voice  that  rose  clear  above  the  clam- 
our. The  shouting  and  swearing  subsided,  all  save  the 
howling  from  the  inside  of  the  shop,  and  the  tumult  settled 
down  in  a  moment  to  mutterings  and  gnashings  and  a 
broken  and  irregular  silence. 

Then  somebody  said,  "  It's  nothink,  sir."  And  somebody 
else  said,  "  'Es  on'y  drunk,  and  wantin'  to  pench  'is  mother." 
Without  listening  to  this  explanation  John  Storm  had  laid 
hold  of  the  young  man  by  the  collar  and  was  dragging 
him,  struggling  and  fuming,  from  the  door. 

"  What's  going  on  ? "  he  demanded.  "  Will  nobody  speak  ? " 

Then  a  poor  swaggering  imitation  of  a  man  came  up  out 
of  the  cellar  of  a  house  that  stood  next  to  the  disused  church, 
and  a  comely  young  woman  carrying  a  baby  followed  close 
behind  him.  He  had  a  gin  bottle  in  his  hands,  and  with  a 
wink  he  said  :  "  A  christenin'— that's  what's  going  on.  'Ave 
a  kcpple  o'  pen'orth  of  'ollands,  old  gel  ? " 


3i(;  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

At  this  sally  the  crowd  recovered  its  audacity  and  laughed, 
and  the  drunken  man  began  to  say  that  he  could  "  knock 
spots  out  of  any  bloouiin'  parson,  en'  now  bloomin'  errer." 

But  the  young  fellow  with  the  gin  bottle  broke  in  again. 
"  What's  yer  gime,  mister  ?  Preach  the  gawspel  ?  Give  us 
trecks  ?  This  is  my  funeral,  down't  ye  know,  and  I'd  jest 
like  to  hear." 

The  little  foreigners  were  enjoying  the  parson-baiting, 
and  the  drunken  man's  courage  was  rising  to  fever  heat. 
"I'll  give  'im  one-two  between  the  eyes  if  'e  touches  me 
again."  Then  he  flung  himself  on  the  pawnshop  like  a 
battering  ram,  the  howling  inside,  which  had  subsided, 
burst  out  afresh,  and  finally  the  door  was  broken  down. 

Half  a  minute  afterward  the  crowd  w^as  making  a  waver- 
ing dance  about  the  two  men.  "Look  out,  ducky!"  the 
young  fellow  shouted  to  John.  The  warning  came  too  late 
— John  went  reeling  backward  from  a  blow. 

"  Now,  my  lads,  who  says  next  ? "  cried  the  drunken 
ruffian.  But  before  the  words  were  out  of  his  niouth  there 
was  a  growl,  a  plunge,  a  snarl,  and  he  was  full  lengtli  on 
the  street  with  the  bloodhound's  muzzle  at  his  throat. 

The  crowd  shrieked  and  began  to  fly.  Only  one  person 
seemed  to  remain.  It  wae  an  elderly  woman,  with  dry  and 
straggling  gray  hair.  She  had  come  out  of  the  pawnshop 
and  thrown  herself  on  the  dog  in  an  effort  to  rescue  the  man 
underneath,  crying  :  "  My  son — oh,  my  son  !  It'll  kill  him  I 
Tyke  the  beast  away  !  " 

John  Storm  called  the  dog  off,  and  the  man  got  up  un- 
hurt, and  nearly  sober.  But  the  woman  continued  to  moan 
over  tlie  ruffian  and  to  assail  John  and  his  dog  with  bitter 
insults.  "We  want  no  truck  with  parsons  'ere,"  she 
shouted. 

"  Stou  thet,  mother.  It  was  my  fault,"  said  the  sobered 
man,  and  then  the  woman  began  to  cry.  At  the  next 
minute  John  Storm  was  going  with  mother  and  son  into 
the  shut-up  pawnshop,  and  the  unhinged  door  was  being 
propped  behind  them. 

The  crowd  was  trailing  off  when  he  came  out  again  half 
an  hour  afterward,  and  the  on\y  commotion  remaining  was 
caused  by  a  belated  policeman  asking,  "  Wot's  bin  the  mat- 


THE   DEVIL-S  ACRE.  3I7 

ter  'ere  ?  "  and  bj'  the  young-  fellow  witli  the  gin  bottle  per- 
forming a  step-dance  on  the  pavement  before  the  entrance 
to  the  cellar.  The  old  woman  stood  at  her  door  wiping  her 
eyes  on  her  apron,  and  her  son  was  behind  with  a  face  that 
was  now  red  from  other  causes  than  drink  and  rage. 

"  Good-bye,  Mrs.  Pincher  ;  I  may  see  you  again  soon." 

Hearing  this,  the  young  swaggerer  stopped  his  step-danc- 
ing and  cried  :  "  What  cheer,  myte  ?  Was  it  a  blowter  and 
a  cup  of  cawfy  ?  " 

"  For  shyme,  Charlie !  "  cried  the  girl  with  a  baby,  and 
the  young  fellow  answered,  "  Shut  yer  'ead,  Aggie  !  " 

The  waiter  was  still  at  the  corner  of  the  court,  and  when 
John  came  up  he  spoke  again.  "  There  must  be  sem  anioose- 
ment  knockin'  women  abart,  but  I  can't  see  it  myself." 
Then  in  a  simple  way  he  began  to  talk  about  his  "  mis.sis," 
and  what  a  good  creatui*e  she  was,  and  finally  announced 
himself  "  gyme  "  to  help  a  pai'son  "  as  stood  up  to  that  there 
drunken  blowke  for  sake  of  a  woman." 

"  What's  your  name  ?  "  said  John. 

"Jupe,"  said  the  man,  and  then  something  stirred  in 
John's  memory. 

On  the  following  day  John  Storm  dined  with  his  uncle 
at  Downing  Street.  The  Prime  Minister  was  waiting  in  the 
library.  In  evening  di^ess,  with  his  back  to  the  fireplace 
and  his  hands  enlaced  behind  him,  he  looked  even  more 
thin  and  gaunt  than  before.  He  welcomed  John  with  a 
few  familiar  words  and  a  smile.  His  smile  was  brief  and 
difficult,  like  that  which  drags  across  the  face  of  an  invalid. 
Dinner  was  announced  immediately,  and  the  old  man  took 
the  young  one's  arm  and  they  passed  into  the  dining- 
room. 

The  panelled  chamber  looked  cold  and  cheerless.  It  was 
lighted  by  a  single  lamp  in  the  middle  of  the  table.  They 
took  their  seats  at  opposite  sides.  The  statesman's  thin  hair 
shone  on  his  head  like  streaks  of  silver.  John  exercised  a 
strong  physical  influence  upon  him,  and  all  throiigh  the 
dinner  his  bleak  face  kept  smiling. 

"  I  ought  to  apologize  for  having  nobody  to  meet  you, 
but  I  had  something  to  say — something  to  suggest — and  I 
thought  perhaps " 


318  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

John  interrupted  with  affectionate  protestations,  and  a 
tremor  passed  over  the  wrinkles  about  the  old  man's 
eyes. 

"  It  is  a  great  happiness  to  me,  my  dear  boy,  that  ycu 
have  turned  your  back  on  that  Brotherhood,  but  I  presume 
you  intend  to  adhere  to  the  Church  ? " 

John  intended  to  take  priest's  orders  without  delay,  and 
then  go  on  with  his  work  as  a  clergyman. 

"  Just  so,  just  so  ■' — the  long,  tapering  fingers  drummed 
on  the  table — "  and  I  should  like  to  do  something  to  help 
you." 

Then  sipping  at  his  wine-glass  of  water,  the  Prime  Min- 
ister, in  his  slow,  deep  voice  and  official  tone,  began  to  de- 
tail his  scheme.  There  was  a  bishopric  vacant.  It  was  only 
a  colonial  one — the  Bishopi'ic  of  Colombo.  The  income 
was  small,  no  more  than  seventeen  hundred  pounds,  the 
work  was  not  light,  and  there  were  eighty  clergy.  Then  a 
colonial  bishopric  was  not  usually  a  stepping-stone  to  pre- 
ferment at  home,  yet  still 

John  interrupted  again.  "  You  are  most  kind,  uncle,  but 
I  am  only  looking  forward  to  living  the  life  of  a  poor  priest, 
out  of  sight  of  the  world  and  the  Church." 

'■  Surely  Colombo  is  sufficiently  out  of  sight,  my  boy  ? " 

"  But  I  see  no  necessity  to  leave  London." 

The  Prime  Minister  glanced  at  him  steadily,  with  the 
concentrated  expression  of  a  man  who  is  accustomed  to 
penetrate  the  thoughts  and  feelings  of  another. 

"  Whj'  then — why  did  3"ou " 

"  Why  did  I  leave  the  monastery,  uncle  ?  Because  I  had 
come  to  see  that  the  monastic  system  was  based  on  a  faulty 
ideal  of  Christianity,  which  has  been  tried  for  the  greater 
part  of  nineteen  hundred  years  and  failed.  The  theory  of 
monasticism  is  that  Christ  died  to  redeem  our  carnal  nature, 
and  all  we  have  to  do  is  to  believe  and  pray.  But  it  is  not 
enough  that  Christ  died  once.  He  must  be  dying  always — 
every  day — and  in  every  one  of  us.  God  is  calling  on  us  in 
this  age  to  seek  a  new  social  application  of  the  Gospel,  or, 
shall  I  say,  to  go  back  to  tlic  old  one  ? " 

"  And  that  is  ? " 

"  To  px'esent  Christ  in  practical  life  as  the  living  Master 


THE   DEVIL'S  ACRE.  3I9 

and  King  and  example,  and  to  ajiply  Christianity  to  the  life 
of  our  own  time." 

The  Prime  Minister  had  not  taken  his  eyes  off  hi.Ti. 
"  What  does  this  mean  ?  "  h.3  had  asked  himself,  but  he  only 
smiled  his  difficult  smile  and  began  to  talk  lightly.  If  this 
creed  applied  to  the  individual  it  applied  also  to  the 
State ;  but  think  of  a  cabinet  conducting  the  affairs  of  a 
nation  on  the  charming  principle  of  "  taking  no  thought 
for  the  morrow,"  and  "  loving  your  enemies,"  and  "  turning 
the  other  cheek,"  and  "selling  all  and  giving  to  the 
poor " ! 

John  stuck  to  his  guns.  If  the  Christian  religion  could 
not  be  the  ultimate  authority  to  rule  a  Christian  nation,  it 
was  only  because  we  lacked  faith  and  trusted  too  much  to 
mechanical  laws  made  by  statesmen  rather  than  to  moral 
laws  made  by  Christ.  "  Either  the  life  of  Christ,  as  the  high- 
est standard  and  example,  means  something  or  it  means  noth- 
ing. If  something,  let  us  try  to  follow  it ;  but  if  nothing, 
then  for  God's  sake  let  us  put  it  away  as  a  cruel,  delusive, 
and  damnable  mummery  !  " 

The  Prime  Minister  continued  to  ask  himself,  "  What  is 
the  key  to  this  ? "  and  to  look  at  John  as  he  would  have 
looked  at  a  problem  that  had  to  be  solved,  but  he  only 
went  on  smiling  and  talking  lightly.  It  was  true  we  said  a 
prayer  and  took  an  oath  on  the  Bible  in  the  Houses  of  Par- 
liament, but  did  anybody  think  for  a  moment  that  we  in- 
tended to  trust  the  nation  to  the  charming  romanticism  of 
the  politics  of  Jesus  ?  As  for  the  Church,  it  was  founded 
on  acts  of  Pai'liament,  it  was  endowed  and  established  by 
the  State,  its  head  was  the  sovereign,  its  clergy  were  civil 
servants  who  went  to  levees  and  hung  on  the  edge  of  draw- 
ing-rooms a7id  troubled  the  knocker  of  No.  10  Downing 
Street.  And  as  for  Christ's  laws — in  this  country  they  were 
interpreted  by  the  Privy  Council  and  were  under  the  direct 
control  of  a  State  department.  Still,  it  was  a  harmless 
superstition  that  we  were  a  Christian  nation.  It  helped  to 
curb  the  masses  of  the  people,  and  if  that  was  what  John 
was  thinking  of 

The  Prime  Minister  paused  and  stopped. 

"  Tell  me,  my  boy,"  touching  John's  arm,  "  do  you  intend 


320  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

yourself  to  live— in  short,  the — well,  after  the  example  of 
the  life  of  Christ  ? " 

"As  far  as  my  weak  and  vain  and  sinful  nature  will 
permit,  uncle ! " 

"  And  in  what  way  would  you  propose  to  apply  your 
new  idea  of  Christianity  ?  " 

"  My  experiment  would  be  made  on  a  social  basis,  sir, 
and  first  of  all  in  relation  to  women."  John  was  hot  all 
over,  and  his  face  had  flushed  up  to  the  eyes. 

The  Prime  Minister  glanced  stealthily  across  the  table, 
passed  his  thin  hand  across  his  forehead,  and  thought,  "  So 
that's  how  it  is ! "  But  John  was  deep  in  his  theme  and 
saw  nothing.  The  present  position  of  women  was  intoler- 
able. Upon  the  well-being  of  women,  especially  of  work- 
ing women,  the  wliole  welfare  of  society  rested.  Yet  what 
was  their  condition  ?  Think  of  it — their  dependence  on 
man,  their  temptations,  their  rewards,  their  punishments  ! 
Three  halfpence  an  hour  was  the  average  wage  of  a  work- 
ing woman  in  England  I — and  that  in  the  midst  of  riches, 
in  the  heart  of  luxury,  and  with  one  easy  and  seductive 
means  of  escape  from  poverty  always  open.  Euin  lay  in 
wait  for  them,  and  was  beckoning  them  and  enticing  them 
in  the  shape  of  dancing  houses  and  music  halls  and  rich 
and  selfish  men. 

"  Not  one  man  in  a  mOlion,  sir,  would  come  through 
such  an  ordeal  unharmed.  And  yet  what  do  we  do  ? — what 
does  the  Church  do  for  these  brave  creatures  on  whose  virtue 
and  heroism  the  welfare  of  the  nation  depends  ?  If  they 
fall  it  cuts  them  ofP,  and  there  is  nothing  before  them  but 
the  streets  or  crime  or  the  Union  or  suicide.  And  mean- 
while it  marries  the  men  who  have  tempted  them  to  the 
snug  and  sheltei'ed  darlings  for  whose  wealth  or  rank  or 
beauty  they  have  been  pushed  aside.  Oh,  uncle,  when  I 
walk  down  Regent  Street  in  the  daytime  I  am  angr3',  but 
wlien  I  walk  down  Regent  Sti'eet  at  night  I  am  ashamed. 
And  then  to  think  of  the  terrible  solitude  of  London  to 
working  girls  who  want  to  live  pure  lives — the  terrible 
spiritual  loneliness ! " 

John's  voice  was  breaking,  but  the  Prime  Minister  had 
almost  ceased  to  hear.     Tliinking:  he  had  realized  the  truth 


THE  DEVIL'S  ACRE.  321 

at  last,  his  own  youth  seemed  to  be  sitting  before  him  and 
he  felt  a  deep  pity. 

"  Coffee  here  or  in  the  librarj',  your  lordship  ? "'  said  the 
man  at  his  elbow. 

"  The  library,"  he  answered,  and  taking  John's  arm  again 
he  returiaed  to  the  other  room.  There  was  a  fire  burning 
now,  and  a  book  lay  under  the  lamp  on  a  little  table,  with  a 
silver  paper-cutter  through  the  middle  to  mark  the  page. 

"  How  you  remind  me  of  your  mother  sometimes,  John  ! 
That  was  just  like  her  voice,  do  you  know — just !  " 

Two  hours  afterward  he  led  John  Storm  down  the  long 
corridor  to  the  hall.  His  bleak  face  looked  soft  and  his 
deep  voice  had  a  slight  tremor.  "  Good-night,  my  dear  boy, 
and  remember  your  money  is  always  waiting  for  you. 
Until  your  Christian  social  state  is  established  you  are  only 
an  advocate  of  socialism,  and  may  fairly  use  your  own. 
If  yours  is  the  Christianity  of  the  first  century  it  has  to 
exist  in  the  nineteenth,  you  know.  You  can't  live  on  air  or 
fly  without  wings.  I  shall  be  curious  to  see  what  approach 
to  the  Christian  ideal  the  condition  of  civilization  admits 
of.  Yet  I  don't  know  what  your  religious  friends  and  the 
humdrum  herd  will  think  of  you — mad  probably,  or  at 
least  weak  and  childish  and  perhaps  even  a  hunter  after 
easy  popularity.  But  good-night,  and  God  bless  you  in 
your  people's  church  and  Devil's  Acre  !  " 

John  was  flushed  and  excited.  He  had  been  talking  of 
his  plans,  his  hopes,  his  expectations.  God  would  provide 
for  him  in  this  as  in  everything,  and  then  God's  priest  ought 
to  be  God's  poor.  Meantime  two  gentlemen  in  plush  waited 
for  him  at  the  door.  One  handed  him  his  hat,  the  other 
his  stick  and  gloves. 

Then  with  regular  steps,  and  his  hands  behind  him,  the 
Prime  Minister  paced  back  through  the  quiet  corridors. 
Returning  to  the  library,  he  took  up  his  book  and  tried  to 
read.  It  was  a  novel,  but  he  could  not  attend  to  the  inci- 
dents in  other  people's  lives.  From  time  to  time  he  said  to 
himself  :  "  Poor  boy  !  Will  he  find  her  ?  Will  he  save  her  ? " 
One  pathetic  idea  had  fixed  itself  on  his  mind — John  Storm's 
love  of  God  was  love  of  a  woman,  and  she  was  fallen  and 
wrecked  and  lost. 


322  THE  CHllISTIAN. 

A  fortnight  later  John  wrote  to  Glory  : 

"  Fairly  under  weigh  at  last,  dear  Glory  !  Taken  priest's 
orders,  got  the  Bishop's  '  license  to  otftciate,'  and  found  my- 
self a  church.  It  is  St.  Mary  Magdalene's,  Crown  Street, 
Soho,  a  district  that  has  borne  for  three  hundred  years  the 
name  of  the  'Devil's  Acre,'  bears  it  still,  and  deserves  it. 
The  church  is  an  old  proprietary  place,  licensed,  not  conse- 
crated, formerly  belonging  to  Greek,  or  Italian,  or  French, 
or  some  other  refugees,  but  long  shut  up  and  now  much  out 
of  repair.  Present  owners,  a  company  of  Greek  merchants, 
removed  from  Soho  to  the  City,  and  being  too  poor  (as  trus- 
tees) to  renovate  the  structure,  they  have  forced  me  to  get 
money  for  that  purpose  from  my  uncle,  the  Prime  Minister. 
But  the  money  is  my  own,  apparently,  my  uncle  having  in 
my  interest  demanded  from  my  father  ten  thousand  pounds 
out  of  my  mother's  dowry,  and  got  it.  And  now  I  am 
spending  two  thousand  on  the  repair  of  my  church  build- 
ings, notwithstanding  the  protests  of  the  Prime  Minister, 
who  calls  me  'chaplain  to  the  Greek-Turks,'  and  of  Mrs. 
Callender,  who  has  discovered  that  I  am  a  '  maudlin,  senti- 
mental, daft  young  spendthrift.'  Dare  say  I  am  all  that  and 
a  good  deal  more,  as  the  wise  world  counts  wisdom — but  it 
matters  little ! 

"Have  not  waited  for  the  workmen,  though,  to  begin 
operations.  Took  first  services  last  Sunday.  No  organist, 
no  choir,  no  clerk,  and  next  to  no  congregation.  Just  the 
church  cleaner,  a  good,  simple  old  soul  named  Pincher,  her 
son,  a  reformed  drunkard  and  pawnbroker,  and  another  con- 
vert who  is  a  club  waiter.  Nevertheless,  I  went  through  the 
whole  service,  morning  and  evening,  prayers,  psalms,  and 
sermon.     God  will  be  the  more  glorified. 

"  Have  started  my  new  crusade  on  behalf  of  women,  too, 
and  made  various  processions  of  three  persons  through  the 
streets  of  Soho.  First,  my  pawnbroker  bearing  the  banner 
(a  white  cross,  the  object  of  various  missiles),  next  my  waiter 
carrying  a  little  harmonium,  and  familiarly  known  as  the 
'  organ  man,'  and  finally  myself  in  my  cassock.  Last  men- 
tioned proves  to  be  a  highly  popular  performance,  being 
generally  understood  to  be  a  man  in  a  black  petticoat.  We 
have  had  a  nightly  accompaniment  of  a  much  larger  pro- 


THE  DEVIL'S  ACRE.  323 

cession,  though,  calling  themselves  '  Skellingtons,'  other- 
wise the  'Skeletons,'  an  army  of  low  women  and  roughs 
who  live  vulture  lives  on  this  poor,  soiled,  grimy,  for- 
gotten world.  Thank  God,,  the  ground  of  evil-doers  is  in 
danger,  and  they  know  it ! 

"  Behind  my  church,  in  a  dark,  unwholesome  alley  called 
Crook  Lane,  we  have  a  clergy  house,  at  j^resent  let  out  in 
tenements,  the  cellar  being  occupied  as  a  gin  shop.  As  soon 
as  these  premises  can  be  cleared  of  their  encumbrances  I 
shall  turn  them  into  a  club  for  working  girls.  Why  not  ? 
In  the  old  days  the  Church  came  to  the  people :  let  it  come 
to  the  people  now.  Here  we  are  in  the  midst  of  this  mighty 
stronghold  of  the  devil's  kingdom  of  sin  and  crime.  For- 
eign clubs,  casinos,  dancing  academies,  and  gambling  houses 
are  round  about  us.  What  are  we. to  do  ?  Put  up  a  forest 
of  props  (as  at  the  Abbey)  and  keep  off  touch  and  contami- 
nation ?  God  forbid !  Let  us  go  down  into  these  dens  of 
moral  disease  and  disinfect  them.  The  poor  working  girls 
of  Soho  want  their  Sunday :  give  it  them.  They  want  music 
and  singing  :  give  it  them.  They  want  dancing :  give  them 
that  also,  for  God's  sake,  give  it  them  in  your  churches,  or 
the  devil  will  give  it  them  in  his  hells  ! 

''  Expect  to  be  howled  at  of  course.  Some  good  people 
will  think  I  am  either  a  fanatic  or  an  artful  schemer,  while 
the  clerical  place-seekers,  who  love  the  flesh-pots  of  Egj^pt 
and  have  their  eyes  on  the  thrones  of  the  Church  and  the 
world,  will  denounce  my  '  secularity  '  and  tell  me  I  am  feed- 
ing the  'miry  troughs'  of  tlie  publican  and  sinner.  No 
matter,  if  only  God  is  pleased  to  vouchsafe  '  signs  following.' 
And  one  weary-faced  lonely  girl,  grown  fresh  of  counte- 
nance and  happy  of  mien,  or  one  bright  little  woman, 
snatched  from  the  brink  of  perdition,  will  be  a  better  fruit 
of  religion  than  some  of  them  have  seen  for  many  a  year. 

"As  soon  as  the  workmen  have  cleared  out  I  am  going 
to  establish  a  daily  service  and  keep  the  church  open  always. 
Still  at  Mrs.  Callender's,  you  see  ;  but  I  am  refusing  all  in- 
vitations, except  as  a  priest,  and  already  I  don't  seem  to 
have  time  to  draw  my  breath.  No  income  connected  with 
St.  Mary  Magdalene's,  or  next  to  none,  just  enough  to  pay 
the  caretaker ;  but  I  must  not  complani  of  that,  for  it  is  the 


324:  THE   CimiSTIAN. 

accident  to  which  I  owe  my  churcli,  nobody  else  wanting  it 
under  the  circumstances.  I  liad  begun  to  think  my  time  in 
the  monastery  wasted,  but  God  knew  better.  It  will  help 
me  to  live  the  life  of  poverty,  of  purity,  of  freedom  from  the 
world. 

"  Love  to  the  grandfather  and  the  ladies.  How  I  wish 
you  were  with  me  in  the  thick  of  the  fight !  Sometimes  I 
dream  you  are,  too,  and  I  fancy  I  see  you  in  the  midst  of 
these  bright  young  things  with  their  flowers  and  feathers — 
they  will  make  beautiful  Christians  yet !  Oddly  enough,  on 
the  day  you  travelled  to  the  island,  every  hour  that  took 
you  farther  away  seemed  to  bring  you  nearer.     Greetings  ! " 


YII. 

"  Glenfaba,  '  the  Oilan.' 
"  Oh,  gracious  and  gi*ateful  friend,  at  length  you  have 
remembered  the  existence  of  the  '  poor  lone  crittur '  living 
in  dead-alive  land  !  Only  that  I  lack  gall  to  make  oppres- 
sion bitter,  I  should  of  course  return  your  belated  epistle  by 
the  Dead  Letter  Office,  marked '  Unknown  '  across  your '  Dear 
Glory,'  there  being  no  longer  aiiybody  in  these  regions  who 
has  a  plausible  claim  to  that  dubious  title.  But,  alas !  I  am 
not  my  own  woman  now,  and  with  teai'S  of  shame  I  ac- 
knowledge that  any  letter  from  London  comes  like  an 
angel's  whisper  breathed  to  me  through  the  air. 

"  I  dare  say  you  have  been  unreasonable  enough  to  think 
that  I  ought  to  have  written  to  tell  you  of  my  arrival ;  and 
knowing  that  man  is  born  to  vanity  as  the  sparks  fly  up- 
ward, I  have  more  than  once  intended  to  take  pen  in  hand 
and  write;  but  there  is  something  so  sleepy  in  this  island 
atmosphere  that  my  good  resolution  has  hitherto  been  a 
stillborn  babe  that  has  breathed  but  never  cried  ! 

"Know  then  that  my  journey  hither  was  performed  with 
due  celerity  and  no  fiu'tlier  disaster  than  befalls  me  when, 
as  usual,  I  have  done  those  things  which  I  ought  not  to 
have  done,  and  left  undone  those  things  which  I  ought  to 
have  done — the  former  in  this  instance  having  reference  to 
various  bouts  of  crying — which  drew  forth  tlie  sympathy  of 


THE  DEVIL'S  ACRE.  325 

a  compassionate  female  sharper  in  the  train — and  the  latter 
to  the  catch  of  my  sachel,  wliich  enabled  that  obliging  per- 
son to  draw  forth  my  embroidered  pocket-handkerchief  in 
exchange. 

"1  was  in  good  time  for  the  steamboat  at  Liverpool,  and 
it  was  crowded,  according  to  its  wont,  with  the  Lancashire 
lads  and  lasses,  in  whom  affection  is  as  contagious  as  the 
mumps.  Being  in  the  dumps  myself  on  sailing  out  of  the 
river,  and  thinking  of  the  wild  excitement  with  which  I  had 
sailed  into  it,  I  think  I  should  have  found  that  I  had  not 
done  crying  in  both  senses  but  for  the  interest  of  watching 
an  amiable  Bob  Brierley  who,  with  his  arm  about  the  waist 
of  the  person  sitting  next  to  him,  kept  looking  round  at  the 
I'est  of  the  world  from  time  to  time  with  the  innocence  of 
one  whose  left  hand  didn't  know  what  his  right  hand  was 
doing. 

"  But  we  had  hardly  crossed  the  bar  when  the  prince  of 
the  powers  of  the  air  began  to  envy  the  happiness  of  these 
dear  young  goodies,  and  if  you  had  seen  the  weather  for  the 
next  four  hours  you  would  have  agreed  that  the  devil  must 
have  had  a  hand  in  it !  Up  came  a  wave  over  the  after 
quarter  and  down  went  the  passengers  below  decks,  stagger- 
ing and  screaming  like  brewery  rats,  and  then  on  we  came 
like  the  Israelites  out  of  Egypt  on  eagles'  wings  !  Having 
lost  my  own  sea  legs  a  little  I  thought  it  prudent  to  go  dov/n 
too,  with  my  doggie  tucked  under  my  arm,  and  finding  a 
berth  in  the  ladies'  cabin,  I  fell  asleep  and  didn't  awake 
until  we  were  in  the  cross-current  just  off  the  island,  when, 
amid  moans  and  groans  and  other  noises,  I  heard  the  tearful 
voice  of  a  sick  passenger  asking,  '  Is  there  any  hope,  stew- 
ardess ? ' 

"  The  train  got  to  Peel  as  the  sun  was  setting  behind  the 
grim  old  castle  walls,  and  when  I  saw  the  dear  little  town 
again  I  dropped  half  a  tear,  and  even  felt  an  insane  desire 
to  run  out  to  meet  it.  Grandfather  was  at  the  station  with 
old  '  Caisar '  and  the  pony  carriage,  and  when  I  had  done 
kissing  him  and  he  had  done  panting  and  puffing  and  talk- 
ing nonsense,  as  if  I  had  been  Queen  Victoria  and  the  Em- 
press of  the  French  rolled  into  one,  I  could  have  cried  to 
see  how  small  and  feeble  he  had  become  since  I  went  away. 


326  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

We  could  not  get  off  immediateh',  for  in  his  simple  joy  at 
my  return  he  was  liailing  everybody  and  everybody  was 
hailing  him,  and  the  dear  old  Pharisee  was  sounding  his 
trumpet  so  often  in  the  market-place,  that  he  might  have 
glory  of  men.  that  I  thought  we  should  never  get  up  to 
Glenfaba  that  night.  When  we  did  so  at  length  the  old 
aunties  were  waiting  at  the  gate,  and  then  he  broke  into 
exclamations  again.  '  Hasn't  she  grown  tall  ?  Look  at 
her  !  Hasn't  she,  now  ? '  Whereupon  the  aunties  took  up 
their  parable  with.  '  Well,  well  1  Aw,  well  I  Aw,  well 
now!  Well,  ye  navar!'  So  that  by  the  time  I  got 
through  I  had  kissed  everybody  a  dozen  times,  and  was  as 
red  over  the  eyes  as  a  grouse. 

"  Then  we  went  into  the  house,  and  for  the  first  five 
minutes  I  couldn't  tell  what  had  come  over  the  old  place 
to  make  it  look  so  small  and  mean.  It  was  just  as  if  the 
walls  of  the  rooms  had  been  the  bellows  of  a  concertina 
and  somebody  had  suddenly  shut  them.  But  there  was  the 
long  clock  clucking  away  on  the  landing,  and  there  was 
Sir  Thomas  Traddles  purring  on  the  hearth-rug,  and  there 
were  the  same  plates  on  the  dresser,  and  the  same  map  of 
Africa  over  the  fireplace,  with  a  spot  of  red  ink  where  my 
father  died. 

"The  moon  was  glistening  on  the  sea  when  I  went  to 
bed  that  night,  and  when  I  got  up  in  the  morning  the  sun 
was  shining  on  it,  and  a  crow  cut  across  my  window  caw- 
ing, and  I  heard  grandfather  humming  to  himself  on  the 
path  below.  And  after  my  long  spell  in  London,  and  my 
railway  journey  of  the  day  before,  it  was  the  same  as  if  I 
had  fallen  asleep  in  a  gale  on  the  high  seas  and  awakened 
in  a  quiet  harbour  somewhere. 

"  So  here  I  am,  back  at  Glenfaba,  in  my  old  little  room 
with  my  old  little  bed,  and  everything  exactly  as  it  used 
to  be ;  and  I  begin  to  believe  that  when  you  went  into  that 
monastery  j^ou  only  just  got  the  start  of  me  in  being  dead. 
There  used  to  be  a  few  people  in  this  place,  but  now  there 
doesn't  seem  to  be  a  dog  left.  All  the  youngsters  have 
'  gone  foreign,'  and  all  the  oldsters  have  gone  to — '  goodness 
knows  which.'  Sometimes  we  hear  the  bleat  of  sheep  on 
the  mountains,  and  sometimes  the  scream  of  seagulls  over- 


THE  DEVIL'S  ACRE.  327 

head,  and  sometimes  we  hold  a  convocation  of  all  living 
rooks  in  the  elms  on  the  lawn.  We  take  no  thought  for 
the  morrow,  what  we  shall  eat  or  what  we  shall  put  on,  and 
on  Sundaj-s  when  the  church  bell  rings  we  go  out,  like  the 
Israelites  in  the  wilderness,  in  clothes  which  wax  not  old 
after  forty  years.  During  the  rest  of  the  week  we  watch 
tlie  blue-bottles  knocking  their  stupid  heads  against  the 
ceiling,  and  listen  to  the  grasshoppers  whispering  in  the 
grass,  and  fall  asleep  to  the  hum  of  the  bees,  and  awake  to 
the  hee-haiv  of  old  Neilus's  '  canary.'  *  Such  is  the  dead- 
alive  life  we  live  at  Glenfaba,  and  the  days  of  our  years 
are  threescore  years  and  ten,  and  if.  .  .  .  Ohoy  !     (A  yawn.) 

"  I  suppose  it  is  basely  ungrateful  of  me  to  talk  like  this, 
for  the  dear  place  itself  is  lovely  enough  to  disturb  one's 
hope  of  paradise,  and  this  very  morning  is  as  fresh  as  the 
dew  on  the  grass,  with  the  larks  singing  above,  and  the 
river  singing  below,  and  clouds  like  little  curls  of  foam 
hovering  over  the  sea.  And  as  for  my  three  dear  old 
dunces,  who  love  me  so  much  more  than  I  deserve,  I  am 
ashamed  in  my  soul  when  I  overhear  them  planning  good 
things  for  me  to  eat,  and  wild  excitements  for  me  to  revel 
in,  that  I  may  not  be  dull  or  miss  the  luxuries  I  am  accus- 
tomed to.  '  Do  you  know  I'm  afraid  Glory  doesn't  care  so 
much  for  pinjane  after  all,'  I  heard  grandfather  w^hispering 
to  Aunt  Anna  one  morning,  and  half  an  hour  afterward  he 
was  reproving  Aunt  Eachel  for  pressing  me  too  hard  to 
serve  at  the  soup  kitchen. 

"They  govern  me  like  a  child  in  pinafores,  and  of 
course  like  a  child  I  revenge  myself  by  governing  all  the 
house.  But,  oh,  dear !  oh,  dear !  gone  are  the  days  when  I 
could  live  on  water-gruel  and  be  happy  in  a  go-cart.  Yes, 
the  change  is  in  me,  not  in  them  or  the  old  home,  and 
what's  the  good  of  putting  back  the  clock  when  the  sun  is 
so  stubbornly  keeping  pace  ?  I  might  be  happy  enough  at 
Glenfaba  still,  if  I  could  only  bring  back  the  days  when 
the  garden  trees  were  my  gymnasium  and  I  used  to  rock 
myself  and  sing  like  a  bird  on  a  bough  in  the  wind,  or 
when  I  led  a  band  of  boys  to  rob  our  own  orchard— a  bold 

*  Donkey. 


328  THE  CHRISTIAN". 

deed,  for  which  Bishop  Anna  ofttimes  launched  at  me  and 
all  her  suffragans  her  severest  censure — it  was  her  slipper, 
I  remeniher.  But  I  can't  run  barefoot  all  day  long-  on  the 
wet  sand  now,  with  the  salt  spray  blowing  in  my  face,  and  a 
young  lady  of  one-and-twenty  seldom  or  never  rushes  out  to 
play  dumps  and  baggy-mug  in  public  with  little  girls  of  ten. 

"  As  a  result,  my  former  adventures  are  now  limited  to 
careering  on  the  back  of  little  '  Ceesar,'  who  has  grown  so 
ancient  and  fat  that  he  waddles  like  an  old  duck,  and 
riding  him  is  like  working  your  passage.  So  I  confine  my- 
self to  sitting  on  committees,  and  being  sometimes  sat  ujion, 
and  rubbing  the  runes  for  grandfather,  and  cleaning  the 
milkpails  for  Aunt  Anna,  and  even  such  holy  kill-times  as 
going  to  church  regularly  and  watching  Neilus  wheu  he  is 
passing  round  the  plate  after  '  Let  your  light  so  shine  before 
men ' — light  to  his  practical  intellect  being  clearly  a  syno- 
nym for  silver  in  the  shape  of  threepenny  bits ! 

"  But,  oh  my !  oh  my !  I  am  a  dark  character  in  this 
place  for  all  that.  The  dear  old  goodies  have  never  yet 
said  a  syllable  about  my  letter  announcing  that  I  had  gone 
over  to  the  enemy  (i.  e.,  Satan  and  the  music  hall),  and 
there  is  a  dead  hush  in  the  house  as  often  as  the  wind  ^ 
conversation  veers  in  that  direction.  This  is  nothing, 
though,  to  the  white  awe  in  the  air  when  visitoi's  call  and  I 
am  questioned  how  I  earn  my  living  in  London.  I  hardly 
know  whether  to  laugh  or  cry  at  the  long-drawn  breath  of 
relief  when  I  wriggle  out  of  a  tight  place  ^vithout  telling  a 
lie.  But  you  can't  hide  an  eel  in  a  sack,  and  I  know  the 
truth  will  pop  out  one  of  these  days.  Only  yesterday  I 
svent  district-visiting  with  Aunt  Rachel,  and  one  of  the 
Balaams  of  life,  who  keejis  a  tavern  for  fishermen,  lui'ed  us 
into  his  bar  parlour  to  look  at  a  portrait  of  '  Gloria '  which 
he  had  cut  out  of  an  illustrated  paper  and  pinned  up  on  the 
wall  '  because  it  resembled  me  so  i^^-uch  ! '  Oh,  dear  1  oh, 
dear !  I  could  have  found  it  in  my  heart  to  brazen  it  out 
on  the  spot  at  this  sight  of  my  evil  fame ;  but  when  I  saw 
poor  little  auntie  watching  me  with  fearful  eyes  I  talked 
away  like  a  mill-wheel  and  went  out  thanking  God  that 
the  rest  of  the  people  of  Peel  were  not  as  other  men  are,  or 
even  as  this  publican. 


THE   DEVIL'S  ACRE.  309 

"I  have  been  getting  newspapers  myself,  though,  sent 
by  my  friend  Rosa ;  and  as  long  as  the  mis-reporters  con- 
cerned themselves  with  my  own  doings  and  failures  to  do, 
and  lied  as  tenderly  as  an  epitaph  about  my  disappearance 
from  London,  I  cut  them  up  and  burned  them.  But  when 
they  forgot  me,  and  began  to  treat  of  other  people's  tri- 
umphs, I  made  Neilus  my  waste-paper  basket,  on  the  under- 
standing that  the  papers  were  to  go  to  the  fishermen  just 
home  from  Kinsale.  Then  from  time  to  time  he  told  me 
they  were  '  goin'  round,  miss,  goin'  round,'  and  gave  me 
other  assurances  of  '  the  greatest  circulation  in  the  world,' 
which  was  true  enough  certainly,  though  the  old  thief 
omitted  to  say  it  was  at  the  paper-mill,  where  they  were 
being  turned  into  pulp. 

"  But,  heigho !  I  don't  need  newspapers  to  remind  me 
of  London.  Like  St.  Paul,  I  have  a  devil  that  beats  me 
with  fists,  and  as  often  as  a  clear  day  comes,  and  one  can 
see  things  a  long  way  off,  he  makes  me  climb  to  the  top  of 
Slieu  Whallin  *  that  I  may  sit  on  the  beacon  by  the  hour 
and  strain  my  eyes  for  a  glimpse  of  England,  feeling  like 
Lot's  wife  when  she  looked  back  on  her  old  home,  and 
then  coming  down  with  a  heavy  heart  and  a  taste  of  tears 
in  my  mouth  as  if  I  had  been  turned  into  a  pillar  of  salt. 
Dear  old  London !  But  I  suppose  it  is  going  on  its  way 
just  as  it  used  to  do,  with  its  tides  of  traffic  and  its  crowds 
and  carriages,  and  wandering  merchants  and  hawkers  cry- 
ing their  wares,  and  everything  the  same  as  ever,  just  the 
same,  although  Glory  isn't  there  ! 

"10.30  P.  M. — I  had  to  interrupt  the  writing  of  ray  letter 
this  morning  owing  to  an  alarm  of  illness  seizing  grand- 
father. He  had  been  taken  with  a  sudden  faintness.  Of 
course  we  sent  for  the  doctor,  but  before  he  arrived  the 
faintness  had  passed,  so  he  looked  wise  at  us,  like  a  prize 
riddle  which  had  to  be  guessed  before  his  next  visit,  left  us 
his  autograph  (a  wonderful  hieroglyphic),  and  went  away. 
Since  then  grandfather  has  been  in  the  hands  of  a  less  taci- 
turn practitioner,  whom  he  calls  the  '  flower  of  Glenfaba ' 

*  A  mountain  in  Man. 


330  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

(that's  me),  and  after  talking  nonsense  to  him  all  day  and 
playing-  chess  with  him  all  the  evening  I  have  to  put  him 
to  bed  laughing,  and  come  back  to  my  own  room  to  finish 
my  letter  with  an  easier  mind.  For  the  last  half-hour  the 
aurora  has  been  pulsing  in  the  northern  sky,  and  I  have 
been  thinking  that  the  glorious  phantasmagoria  must  be 
the  sign  of  a  gale  in  heaven,  just  as  sleet  and  mist  and 
black  wind  are  the  signs  of  a  gale  on  earth.  But  it  has 
tripped  off  into  nothingness  and  only  the  dark  night  is  left, 
through  which  the  dogs  at  Knockaloe  are  keeping  up  their 
private  correspondence  with  the  dogs  at  Ballamoar  by  the 
medium  of  their  nightly  howls. 

"  Oh,  dear !  Only  10.30  !  And  to  know  that  while  we  are 
going  to  bed  by  country  hours,  with  nearly  everything  still 
and  dead  around  us,  London  is  just  beginning  to  bestir  itself  ! 
Wlien  I  lie  down  and  try  to  sleep  I  shall  see  the  wide 
squares,  with  their  statues  of  somebody  inside,  and  the  blaze 
of  lights  over  the  doors  of  the  theatres,  and  all  the  tingling 
life  of  the  great  and  wonderful  city.  Ugh !  It  makes  one 
feel  like  one's  own  ghost  wandering  through  the  upper 
rooms  and  across  the  dark  landings,  and  hearing  the  strains 
of  the  music  and  the  sounds  of  the  dancing  fi^om  the  ball- 
room below  stairs ! 

"  But,  my  goodness  !  (I  can  still  swear  on  that,  you  see, 
and  not  be  forsworn  !)  '  What's  the  odds  if  you're  jolly  ? — 
and  I  alius  is  ! '  How's  your  dog  ?  Mine  would  write  you  a 
letter,  only  her  heart  is  moribund,  and  if  tilings  go  on  as 
they  are  going  she  must  set  about  making  her  will.  In  fact, 
she  is  now  lying  at  the  foot  of  my  bed  thinking  matters 
out,  and  bids  me  tell  you  that  after  various  attempts  to 
escape  Home  Rule,  not  being  (like  her  mistress)  one  of  those 
natures  made  perfect  through  suffering,  she  is  only  '  kept 
alive  by  the  force  of  her  own  volition,'  in  this  house  that  is 
full  of  old  maids  and  has  nothing  better  in  it  than  one  old 
cat,  and  he  isn't  woi*th  hunting,  being  destitute  of  a  tail. 
Naturally  she  is  doing  her  best  (like  somebody  else)  to  Jceep 
herself  unspotted  fi'om  that  world  which  is  a  source  of  so 
much  temptation,  but  she's  bound  to  confess  that  a  little 
'divilinent'  now  and  then  would  help  her  to  take  a  more 
holy  and  religious  view  of  life. 


THE  DEVIL'S  ACRE.  33 1 

"I  'wish  you  happy'  in  youi*  new  enterprise;  but  if  you 
are  going  in  for  being  the  champion  of  woman  in  this  workl 
— of  her  wrongs — I  warn  you  not  to  be  too  pointed  in  your 
moral,  for  there  is  a  story  here  of  a  handsome  young  curate 
wiio  was  so  particukir  in  the  pulpit  with  'Lovest  thou  me' 
that  a  lady  followed  him  into  the  vestry  and  admitted  that 
she  did.  Soberly,  it  is  a  gi-eat  and  noble  effort,  and  I've 
half  a  mind  to  love  you  for  it.  If  men  want  women  to  be 
good  they  ivill  be  good,  for  women  dance  to  the  tune  that 
men  like  best,  and  always  have  done  so  since  the  days  of 
Adam — not  forgetting  that  gentleman's  temptation,  nor  yet 
his  excuse  about  '  the  womaji  Thou  gavest  me,'  which  shows 
he  wasn't  much  of  a  husband  anyway,  though  certainly  he 
hadn't  much  choice  of  a  wife. 

"  My  love  to  dear  old  London  !  Sometimes  I  have  half  a 
mind  to  skip  off  and  do  my  wooing  myself.  Perhaps  I 
should  do  so,  only  that  Rosa  w^rites  that  she  would  like  to 
come  and  spend  her  summer  holiday  in  Peel.  Haven't  I 
told  you  about  Rosa  ?  She's  the  lady  journalist  that  Mr. 
Drake  introduced  me  to. 

"  But  let's  to  bed, 
Said  Sleepyhead. 

"  Glory. 
"  P.  S.— Important.  Ever  since  I  left  London  I  have 
been  tormented  with  the  recollection  of  poor  Polly's  baby. 
She  put  him  out  to  nurse  with  the  Mrs.  Jupe  you  heard  of, 
and  that  person  put  him  out  to  somebody  else.  While  the 
mother  lived  I  had  no  business  to  interfere,  but  I  can't  help 
thinking  of  the  motherless  mite  now  and  wondering  what 
has  become  of  him.  I  suppose  that  like  Jeshurun  he 
waxeth  fat  and  kicketh  by  this  time,  yet  it  would  be  the  act 
of  a  man  and  a  clergyman  if  anybody  would  take  up  my 
neglected  duty  and  make  it  his  business  to  see  that  there  is 
somebody  to  love  the  poor  child.  Mrs.  Jupe's  address  is 
5a,  The  Little  Turnstile,  going  from  Holborn  into  Lincoln's 
Inn  Fields." 


332  THE  CHRISTIAN. 


VIII. 

It  was  on  a  Saturday  morning  that  John  Storm  received 
Glory's  letter,  and  on  the  evening  of  the  same  day  he  set 
out  in  search  of  Mrs.  Jupe's.  The  place  was  not  easy  to 
find,  and  when  he  discovered  it  at  length  he  felt  a  pang  at 
the  thought  that  Glory  herself  had  lived  in  this  dingy  bur- 
rowing. As  he  was  going  up  to  the  door  of  the  little  tobacco 
shop  a  raucous  voice  within  was  saying,  "  That's  what's  doo 
on  the  byeby,  and  till  you  can  py  up  you  needn't  be  a-kem- 
min'  'ere  no  more."  At  the  next  moment  a  young  woman 
crossed  him  on  the  threshold.  She  was  a  little  slender  thing, 
looking  like  a  flower  that  has  been  broken  by  the  wet.  He 
i-ecognised  her  as  the  girl  who  had  nursed  the  baby  in  Cook 
Lane  on  the  day  of  his  first  visit  to  Soho.  She  was  crying, 
and  to  hide  her  swollen  eyes  she  dropped  her  head  at  pass- 
ing, and  he  saw  her  faded  ribbons  and  soiled  straw  hat. 

A  woman  of  middle  age  behind  the  counter  was  curtsy- 
ing to  his  clerical  attire,  and  a  little  girl  at  the  door  of  an 
inner  room  was  looking  at  him  out  of  the  corner  of  her  eyes, 
with  head  aslant. 

"  Father  Storm,  I  think,  sir.  Come  in  and  set  you  down, 
sir. — Mind  the  shop,  Booboo. — My  'usband  'as  told  me  about 
ye,  sir.  '  You'll  know  'im  at  onct,  Lidjer,'  'e  sez,  siz  'e. — No, 
'e  ain't  'ome  from  the  club  yet,  but  'e  might  be  a-kemmin' 
in  any  time  now,  sir." 

John  Storm  had  seated  himself  in  the  little  dark  parlour, 
and  was  looking  round  and  thinking  of  Glory.  "  No  mat- 
ter ;  my  business  is  with  you,  Mrs.  Jupe,"  he  answered,  and 
at  that  the  twinkling  eyes  and  fat  cheeks,  which  had  been 
doing  their  best  to  smile,  took  on  a  look  of  fear. 

"  Wot's  the  metter  ? "  she  asked,  and  she  closed  the  door 
to  the  shop. 

"Nothing,  I  trust,  my  good  woman,"  and  then  he  ex- 
plained his  errand. 

Mrs.  Jupe  listened  attentively  and  seemed  to  be  asking 
herself  who  had  sent  him. 

"  The  poor  young  mother  is  dead  now,  as  you  may  know, 
and " 


THE   DEVIL'S  ACRE.  333 

"But  the  father  ain't,"  said  the  woman  sharply,  "and, 
begging  your  parding,  sir,  if  'e  wants  ter  know  wliere  the 
byeby  is  'e  can  come  'isself  and  not  send  sembody  else  ! " 

"  If  the  child  is  well,  my  good  woman,  and  well  cared 
for " 

"  It  is  well  keered  foi*,  and  it's  gorn  to  a  pusson  I  can 
trust." 

"  Then  what  have  you  got  to  conceal  ?  Tell  me  where 
it  is,  and " 

"  Not  me !  If  it's  'is  child,  and  'e  wants  it,  let  'im  py 
for  it,  and  interest  ep  ter  dite.  Them  swells  is  too  fond  of 
gettin'  parsons  to  pull  their  chestnuts  out  o'  the  fire." 

"  If  you  suppose  I  am  here  in  the  interests  of  the  father, 
you  are  mistaken,  I  do  assure  you." 

"  Ow,  you  do,  do  yer  ?  " 

Matters  had  reached  this  pass  when  the  door  opened  and 
Mr.  Jupe  came  in.  'Off  went  his  hat  with  a  respectful  salu- 
tation, but  seeing  the  cloud  on  his  wife's  face,  he  abridged 
his  greeting.  The  woman's  apron  was  at  her  eyes  in  an  in- 
stant. 

"  Wot's  gowin'  on  ?  "  he  asked.  John  Storm  tried  to  ex- 
plain, but  the  woman  contented  herself  with  crying. 

"  Well,  it's  like  this,  don'cher  see.  Father.  My  missis  is 
that  fond  of  childring,  and  it  brikes  'er  'eart " 

Was  the  man  a  fool  or  a  hypocrite  ? 

"  Mr.  Jupe,"  said  John,  rising,  "  I'm  afraid  your  wife  has 
been  carrying  on  an  improper  and  illegal  business."' 

"Now  stou  thet,  sir,"  said  the  man,  wagging  his  head. 
"I  respects  the  Reverend  Jawn  Storm  a  good  deal,  but  I 
respects  Mrs.  Lidjer  Jupe  a  good  deal  more,  and  when  it 
comes  to  improper  and  illegal  bizuiss " 

"Down't  mind  'im,  'Enery,"  said  the  wife,  now  weeping 
audibly. 

"And  down't  you  tyke  on  so,  Lidjer,"  said  the  husband, 
and  they  looked  as  if  they  were  about  to  embrace 

John  Storm  could  stand  no  more.  Going  down  the 
court  he  was  thinking  with  a  pang  of  Glory— that  she  had 
lived  months  in  the  atmosphere  of  that  impostor— when 
somebody  touched  his  arm  in  the  darkness.  It  was  the  girl. 
She  was  still  crving. 


334  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

"  I  reckerlec'  seeing  you  in  Crook  Lane,  sir,  the  day  we 
christened  my  byeby,  and  I  waited,  thinking  p'raps  you 
could  help  me." 

"  Come  this  way,"  said  John,  and  walking  by  his  side 
along  the  blank  wall  of  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields,  the  girl  told 
her  story.  She  lived  in  one  room  of  the  clergy-house  at  the 
back  of  his  chux'ch.  Having  to  earn  her  living,  she  had 
answered  an  advertisement  in  a  Sunday  paper,  and  Mrs. 
Jupe  had  taken  her  baby  to  nurse.  It  was  true  she  had 
given  up  all  claim  to  the  child,  but  she  could  not  help  going 
to  see  it — the  little  one's  ways  were  so  engaging.  Then  she 
found  that  Mrs.  Jupe  had  let  it  out  to  somebody  else.  Only 
for  her  "  friend  "  she  might  never  have  heard  of  it  again. 
He  had  found  it  by  accident  at  a  house  in  Westminster.  It 
was  a  fearful  place,  where  men  went  for  gambling.  The 
man  who  kept  it  had  just  been  released  from  eighteen 
months'  imprisonment,  and  the  wife  had  taken  to  nursing 
while  the  husband  was  in  prison.  She  was  a  frightful 
woman,  and  he  was  a  shocking  man,  and  "  they  knocked 
the  children  about  cruel."  The  neighbours  heard  screams 
and  slaps  and  moans,  and  they  were  always  crying  "  Shame  ! " 
She  had  wanted  to  take  her  own  baby  away,  but  the  woman 
would  not  give  it  up  because  there  were  three  weeks'  board 
owing,  and  she  could  not  pay. 

"  Could  you  take  me  to  this  house,  my  child  ? " 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  Then  come  round  to  the  church  after  service  to-morrow 
night." 

The   girls  tearful   face   glistened   like  April    sunshine. 

"And  will  you  help  me  to  get  my  little  girl  ?  Oh,  how 
good  you  are !     Everybody  is  saying  Avhat  a  Father  it  is 

that's  come  to "     She  stopped,  then  said  quite  soberly : 

"  I'll  get  somebody  to  lend  me  a  shawl  to  bring  'er  'ome 
in.  People  say  they  pawn  everything,  and  perhaps  the 
beautiful  white  perl  ice  I  bought  for  'er  .  .  .  Oh,  I'll  never 
let  'er  out  of  my  sight  again,  never  !  " 

"  What  is  your  name,  my  girl  ? " 

"  Agatha  Jones,"  the  girl  answered. 

It  was  nearly  eleven  o'clock  on  Sunday  night  before 
they    were    ready    to   start    on    their    errand.      Meantime 


THE  DEVIL'S  ACRE.  335 

Aggie  had  done  two  turns  at  the  foreign  clubs,  and  Jolin 
Storm  had  led  a  procession  through  Crown  Street  and  been 
hit  by  a  missile  thrown  by  a  "  Skeleton,"  whom  he  declined 
to  give  in  charge.  At  the  corner  of  the  alley  he  stopped  to 
ask  Mrs.  Pincher  to  wait  up  for  him,  and  the  girl's  large 
eyes  caught  sight  of  the  patch  of  plaster  above  his  temple. 

"  Are  you  sure  you  want  to  go,  sir  ? "  she  said. 

"There's  no  time  to  lose,"  he  answered.  The  bloodhound 
was  with  him  ;  he  had  sent  home  for  it  since  the  attempted 
riot. 

As  they  walked  toward  Westminster  she  told  him 
where  she  had  been,  and  what  money  she  had  earned.  It 
was  ten  shillings,  and  that  would  buy  so  many  things  for 
baby. 

"  To-morrow  I'll  get  a  cot  for  her — one  of  those  wicker 
ones ;  iron  is  so  expensive.  She'll  want  a  pair  o'  socks  too, 
and  by-and-bye  she'll  'ave  to  be  shortened." 

John  Storm  was  thinking  of  Glory.  He  seemed  to  be 
retreading  the  steps  of  her  life  in  London.  The  dog  kept 
close  at  his  heels. 

"  She'll  'a  bin  a  month  away  now,  a  month  to-morrow. 
I  wonder  if  she's  grow'd  much — I  wonder  !  It's  wrong  of 
people  letting  their  childring  go  away  from  them.  I'll  never 
go  out  at  nights  again — not  if  I  'ave  to  tyke  in  sewin'  for 
the  slop  shops.  See  this  ? "  laughing  nervously  and  show- 
ing a  shawl  that  hung  on  her  arm.  "  It's  to  bring  'er  'ome 
in — the  nights  is  so  chill  for  a  byeby." 

John's  heart  was  heavy  at  sight  of  these  little  prepara- 
tions, but  the  young  mother's  face  was  radiant. 

As  they  went  by  the  Abbey,  under  its  forest  of  scaffold- 
ing, and,  walking  toward  Millbank,  dipped  into  the  slums 
that  lie  in  the  shadow  of  the  dark  prison,  they  passed  sol- 
diers from  the  neighbouring  barracks  going  arm-in-arm 
with  girls,  and  this  made  Aggie  talk  of  her  "  friend,"  and 
cry  a  little,  saying  it  was  a  week  since  she  had  seen  him, 
and  she  was  afraid  he  must  have  'listed.  She  knew  he  was 
rude  to  people  sometimes,  and  she  asked  pardon  for  him, 
but  he  wasn't  such  a  bad  hoy,  after  all,  and  he  never 
knocked  you  about  except  when  he  Avas  drinking. 

The  house  they  were  going  to  was  in  Angel  Court,  and 


336  THE  CHBISTIAN. 

having  its  door  only  to  the.  front,  it  was  partly  sheltered 
from  observation.  A  group  of  women  with  their  aprons  over 
their  heads  stood  talking  in  whispers  at  the  corner.  One  of 
them  recognised  Aggie  and  asked  if  she  had  got  her  child 
yet,  whereupon  John  stopped  and  made  some  inquiries.  The 
goings-on  at  the  house  were  scandalous.  The  men  who 
went  to  it  were  the  lowest  of  the  low,  and  there  was  scarcely 
one  of  them  who  hadn't  "  done  time."  The  man's  name  was 
Sharkey,  and  his  wife  was  as  bad  as  he  was.  She  insured 
the  children  at  seven  pounds  apiece,  and  "Lawd  love  ye, 
sir,  at  that  iirice  the  poor  things  is  worth  more  dead  nor 
alive  ! " 

Aggie's  face  was  becoming  white,  and  she  was  touching 
John  Storm's  elbow  as  if  pleading  with  him  to  come  away, 
but  he  asked  further  questions.  Yes,  there  were  several 
children.  A  twelve-months'  baby,  a  boy,  was  fretful  with 
his  teething,  and  on  Sunday  nights,  when  the  woman  was 
wanted  downstairs,  she  just  put  the  poor  darling  to  bed  and 
locked  the  room.  If  you  lived  next  door,  you  could  hear 
his  crying  through  the  wall. 

"  Agatha,"  said  John,  as  they  stepped  up  to  the  door, 
"get  us  both  into  this  house  as  best  you  can,  then  leave  the 
rest  to  me.— Don,  lie  close ! " 

Aggie  tapped  at  the  door.  A  little  slide  in  it  was  run 
back  and  a  voice  said,  "  Who's  there  ? " 

"Aggie,"  the  girl  answered. 

"  Who's  that  with  you  ? " 

"  A  friend  of  Charlie's,"  and  then  the  door  was  opened. 

John  crossed  the  thi*eshold  first,  the  dog  followed  him, 
the  girl  entered  last.  When  the  door  had  closed  behind 
them  the  doorkeeper,  a  young  man  holding  a  candle  in 
his  hand,  was  staring  at  John  with  his  whole  face  open. 

"  Hush  !    Not  a  word  ! — Don,  watch  that  man  !  " 

The  young  man  looked  at  the  dog  and  turned  pale. 

"  Where  is  Mrs.  Sharkey  ?  " 

"  Downstairs,  sir." 

There  were  sounds  of  men's  voices  from  below,  and  from 
above  there  came  the  convulsive  sobs  of  a  child,  deadened 
as  by  a  door  betweeii. 

"  Give  me  your  candle." 


THE   DEVIL'S  ACRE.  337 

The  man  gave  it. 

"  Don't  speak  or  stir,  or  else " 

John  glanced  at  the  dog,  and  the  man  trembled. 

"Come  upstairs,  child,"  and  the  girl  followed  him  to  the 
upper  floor. 

On  reaching  the  room  in  which  the  baby  was  crying  they 
tried  the  door.  It  was  locked.  John  attempted  to  force  it, 
but  it  would  not  yield.  The  child's  sobs  were  dying  down 
to  a  sleepy  moan. 

Another  room  stood  oj)en  and  they  went  in.  It  was  the 
living-room.  A  kettle  on  the  fire  was  singing  and  puffing 
steam.  There  was  no  sign  of  a  key  anywhere.  Only  a 
table,  some  chairs,  a  disordered  sofa,  certain  sporting  news- 
papers lying  about,  and  a  few  pictures  on  the  walls.  Some 
of  the  pictures  were  of  race- horses,  but  all  the  rest  were 
memorial  cards,  and  one  bore  the  text,  "He  shall  gather 
them  in  his  arms."  Aggie  was  shuddering  as  with  cold, 
being  chilled  by  some  unknown  fear. 

"We  must  go  down  to  the  cellar — there's  no  help  for 
it,"  said  John. 

The  man  in  the  hall  had  not  spoken  or  stirred.  He  was 
still  gazing  in  terror  on  the  bloodshot  eyes  looking  out  of 
the  darkness.  John  gave  the  candle  to  the  girl  and  began  to 
go  noiselessly  downstairs.  There  was  not  a  movement  in  the 
house  now.     Big  Ben  was  striking.     It  was  twelve  o'clock. 

At  the  next  moment  John  Storm  was  midway  down,  and 
had  full  view  of  the  den.  It  was  a  washing  cellar  with  a 
coal  vault  going  out  of  it  under  the  street.  Some  fifteen  or 
twenty  men.  chiefly  foreigners,  were  gathered  about  a  large 
table  covered  with  green  baize,  on  which  a  small  lamp  was 
burning.  A  few  of  the  men  were  seated  on  chairs  ranged 
about,  the  others  were  staiiding  at  the  back  in  rows  two 
deep.  They  were  gambling.  The  game  was  faro.  Rows  of 
lucifer  matches  were  laid  on  the  table,  half-crowns  Avere 
staked  on  them,  and  cai'ds  were  cut  and  dealt.  Except  the 
banker,  a  middle-aged  man  with  the  wild  eye  of  the  hard 
spirit-drinker,  everybody  had  his  face  turned  away  from  the 
cellar  stairs. 

They  did  not  smoke  or  drink,  and  they  only  spoke  to 
each  other  when  the  stakes  were  being  received  or  paid. 


338  THE  CHRISTIAN, 

Then  they  quarrelled  and  swore  in  English.  After  that 
there  was  a  chilling  and  hideous  silence,  as  if  something 
awful  were  about  to  occur.  The  lamp  cast  a  strong  light 
on  the  table,  but  the  rest  of  the  room  was  darkened  by 
patches  of  shadow. 

The  coal  vault  had  been  turned  into  a  drinking-bar,  and 
behind  the  counter  there  was  a  well-stocked  stillage.  In 
the  depths  of  its  shade  a  woman  sat  knitting.  She  had  a 
gross  red  and  Avhite  face,  and  in  the  arch  above  her  was  the 
iron  grid  in  the  pavement.  Somebody  on  the  street  walked 
over  it,  causing  a  hollow  sound  as  of  soil  falling  on  a 
coffin. 

John  Stoi'm  was  no  coward,  but  a  certain  tremor  passed 
over  him  on  finding  himself  in  this  subtei-ranean  lurking- 
place  of  men  who  were  as  beasts.  He  stood  a  full  minute 
unseen.  Then  he  heard  the  woman  say  in  a  low  hiss,  "  Cat's 
mee-e-et ! "  and  he  knew  he  had  been  observed.  The  men 
turned  and  looked  at  him,  not  suddenly,  or  all  at  once,  but 
furtively,  cautiously,  slowly.  The  banker  crouched  at  the 
table  with  an  astonished  face  and  tried  to  smuggle  the  cards 
out  of  sight. 

John  stood  calmly,  his  whole  figure  displaying  courage 
and  confidence.  The  group  of  men  broke  up.  "  He's  got 
the  '  coppers,'  "  said  one.  Nobody  else  spoke,  and  they  be- 
gan to  melt  away.  They  disappeared  through  a  door  at  the 
back  which  led  into  a  yard,  for,  like  rats,  the  human  vermin 
always  have  a  second  way  out  of  their  holes. 

In  half  a  minute  the  cellar  was  nearly  empty.  Only  the 
banker  ai\d  the  woman  and  one  young  man  remained.  The 
young  man  was  Charlie. 

"  What  cheer,  myte  ? "  he  said  with  an  air  of  unconcern. 
"  Is  it  trecks  ye  want,  sir  ?  Here  ye  are  then,"  and  he 
threw  a  pack  of  cards  at  John's  feet. 

"  It's  tliat  gel  o'  yawn  that's  done  this,"  said  the  woman. 

"  So  it's  a  got-up  thing,  is  it  ?  "  said  Charlie,  and  stepping 
to  the  counter,  he  took  up  a  drinking-glass,  broke  it  at  the 
rim,  and  holding  its  jagged  edges  outward,  turned  to  use  it 
as  a  weapon. 

John  Storm  had  not  yot  spoken,  but  a  magnetic  instinct 
warned  liim.     He  whistled,  and  the  dog  bounded  down. 


THE   DEVIL'S  ACRE.  339 

The  youn,^  man  threw  his  broken  glass  on  the  floor  and 
cried  to  the  keeper  of  the  house :  "  Don't  stir,  you  !  First 
you  know,  the  beast  will  be  at  yer  throat !  " 

Hearing  Charlie's  voice,  Aggie  was  creeping  down  the 
stairs.  "  Charlie  !  "  she  cried.  Charlie  threw  open  his  coat, 
stuck  his  fingers  in  the  armholes  of  his  waistcoat,  said  in  a 
voice  of  hatred,  passion,  and  rage,  "  Go  and  pawn  yourself ! " 
and  then  swaggered  out  at  the  back  door.  The  keeper  made 
show  of  following,  but  John  Storm  called  on  him  to  stop. 
The  man  looked  at  the  dog  and  obeyed.  "Wot  d'ye  want 
o'  me  ?  "  he  said. 

"  I  want  this  girl's  baby.  That's  the  first  thing  I  want. 
I'll  tell  you  the  rest  afterward." 

"  Oh,  that's  it,  is  it  ?  "     The  man's  grimace  was  frightful. 

"  It's  gone,  sir.  We've  lost  it,"  said  the  woman,  with  a 
hideous  expression. 

"That  story  will  not  pass  with  me,  my  good  woman. 
Go  upstairs  and  unlock  the  door  !  You  too,  my  man,  go 
on  ! " 

A  minute  later  they  were  in  a  bedroom  above.  Three 
neglected  children  lay  asleep  on  bundles  of  rags.  One  of 
twelve  months'  old  was  in  a  wicker  cradle,  one  of  three 
years  was  in  a  wooden  cot,  and  a  younger  child  was  in  a 
bed.  Aggie  had  come  up  behind,  and  stood  by  the  door 
trembling  and  weeping. 

"Now,  my  girl,  find  your  baby,"  said  John,  and  the 
young  mother  hurried  with  eager  eyes  from  the  cradle  to 
the  cot  and  from  the  cot  to  the  bed. 

"Yes,  here  it  is,"  she  cried.  "No — oh  no,  no !"  and  she 
began  to  wring  her  hands. 

"  Told  yer  so,"  said  the  woman,  and  with  a  wicked  grin 
she  pointed  to  a  memorial  card  which  hung  on  the  wall. 

Aggie's  child  was  dead  and  buried.  Diarrhoea !  The 
doctor  at  the  dispensary  had  given  a  certificate  of  death, 
and  Charlie  had  shared  the  insurance  money.  "Wish  to 
Christ  it  was  ended  ! "  he  had  said.  He  had  been  drunk  ever 
since. 

The  poor  girl  was  stunned.  She  was  no  longer  crying. 
"  Oh,  oh,  oh  !    What  shall  I  do  ?  "  she  said. 

"  Who's  child  is  this  ? "  said  John,  standing  over  the 


340  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

wicker  cradle.  The  little  sufferer  from  inflamed  gums  had 
sobbed  itself  to  sleep. 

"  A  real  laidy's,"  said  the  woman.  "  Mi'S.  Jupe  told  us 
to  tyke  great  kear  of  it.     The  father  is  Lord  something." 

"My  poor  girl,"  said  John,  turning  to  Aggie,  "could  you 
carry  this  child  home  for  me  ? " 

"  Oh,  oh,  oh  ! "  said  the  girl,  but  she  wrapped  the  shawl 
about  the  child  and  lifted  it  up  sleeping. 

"  Now,  you  down't ! "  said  the  man,  jjutting  himself  on 
guard  before  the  door.  "  That  child  is  worth  'undrids  of 
pounds  to  me,  and " 

"  Stand  back,  you  brute  !  "  said  John,  and  with  the  girl 
and  her  burden  he  passed  out  of  the  house. 

The  front  door  stood  open  and  the  neighbourhood  had 
been  raised.  Trollopy  women  in  their  under- petticoats  and 
with  their  hair  hanging  about  their  necks  were  gathered  at 
the  end  of  the  court.  Aggie  was  crying  again,  and  John 
pushed  through  tlie  crowd  without  speaking. 

They  went  back  by  Broad  Sanctuary,  where  a  solitary 
policeman  was  pacing  to  and  fro  on  the  echoing  pavement. 
Big  Ben  was  chiming  the  half-hour  after  midnight.  The 
child  coughed  like  a  sheep  constantly,  and  Aggie  kept  say- 
ing, "  Oh,  oh,  oh  !  " 

Mrs.  Pincher,  in  her  widow's  cap  and  white  apron,  was 
waiting  up  for  them,  and  John  committed  the  child  to  her 
keeping.  Then  he  said  to  Aggie,  who  was  turning  away, 
"  My  poor  child,  you  have  suffered  deeply,  but  if  you  will 
leave  this  man  I  will  help  you  to  begin  life  again,  and  if 
you  want  money  I  will  find  it." 

"  Well,  he  is  a  Father  and  no  mistake ! "  said  Mrs. 
Pincher  ;  but  the  girl  only  answered  in  a  hopeless  voice,  "  I 
don't  want  no  money,  and  I  don't  want  to  begin  life  again." 

As  she  crossed  the  court  to  her  room  in  the  tenement 
house  they  heard  her  "  Oh,  oh,  oh  !  " 

Before  going  to  bed  that  night  John  Storm  wrote  to 
Glory  : 

"  Hurrah  !  Have  got  poor  Polly's  baby,  so  you  may  set 
your  heart  at  ease  about  it.  All  the  days  of  my  life  I  have 
been  thought  to  be  a  dreamer,  but  it  is  surprising  what  u 


THE  DEVIL'S  ACRE.  34I 

man  can  do  when  he  sets  to  work  for  somebody  else  !  Your 
former  landlady  turns  out  to  be  the  wife  of  my  '  organ  man,' 
and  it  was  pitiful  to  see  the  dear  old  simpleton's  devotion  to 
his  bogus  little  baggage.  I  have  lost  him,  of  course,  but 
that  was  unavoidable. 

"  It  was  by  help  of  another  victim  that  I  traced  the  child  at 
last.  She  is  a  ballet  girl  of  .some  sort,  and  it  was  as  much  as 
I  could  stand  to  see  the  poor  young  thing  carrying  Polly's 
baby,  her  own  being  dead  and  buried  without  a  word  said 
to  her.  Short  of  the  grace  of  Grod  she  will  go  to  the  bad 
now.  Oh,  when  will  the  world  see  that  in  dealing  with  the 
starved  hearts  of  these  i^oor  fallen  creatures  God  Almighty 
knows  best  how  to  do  his  own  business  ?  Keep  the  child 
with  the  mother,  foster  the  maternal  instinct,  and  you  build 
up  the  best  womanhood.  Drag  them  apart,  and  the  child 
goes  to  the  dogs  and  the  mother  to  the  devil. 

"  But  Polly's  baby  is  safely  lodged  with  Mrs.  Pincher,  a 
dear  old  grandmotherly  soul  who  will  love  it  like  her  own, 
and  all  the  way  home  I  have  been  making  up  my  mind  to 
start  baby-farming  myself  on  fresh  lines.  He  who  wrongs 
the  child  commits  a  crime  against  the  State.  However  low 
a  woman  has  fallen,  she  is  a  subject  of  the  Crown,  and  if  she 
is  a  mother  she  is  the  Ci'own's  creditor.  These  are  my  first 
principles,  the  application  will  come  anon.  Meantime  you 
have  given  me  a  new  career,  a  glorious  mission  !  Thank 
God  and  Glory  Quayle  for  it  for  ever  and  ever!  Then — 
who  knows  ? — perhaps  you  will  come  back  and  take  it  up 
youi'self  some  day.  When  I  think  of  the  precious  time  I 
spent  in  that  monastery  ,  .  .  but  no,  only  for  that  I  should 
not  be  here. 

"  Oh,  life  is  wonderful  !  But  I  feel  afraid  that  I  shall 
wake  up — perhaps  in  the  streets  somewhere— and  find  I 
have  been  dreaming.  Deeply  grieved  to  hear  of  the  grand- 
father's attack.  Trust  it  has  passed.  But  if  not,  certain  I 
am  that  all  is  well  with  him  and  that  he  is  staid  only  on 
God. 

"  Hope  you  are  well  and  plodding  through  this  wildor- 
ness  in  comfort,  avoiding  the  thorns  as  well  as  you  can. 
Glenfaba  may  be  dull,  but  you  do  well  to  keep  out  of  the 
whirlpool  of  London  for  the  present.     Yours  is  a  snug  spot, 


342  THE   CHRISTIAN. 

and  when  storms  are  blowing  even  the  sea-gulls  shelter 
about  your  house,  I  remember  .  .  .  But  why  Rosa  ?  Is 
Peel  the  only  place  for  a  summer  holiday  ? "' 

IX. 

"  Glenfaba. 

"  Oh,  my  dear  John  Storm,  is  it  coals  of  fire  you  are 
heaping  on  my  head,  or  fire  of  brimstone  ?  Your  last  letter 
with  its  torrents  of  enthusiasm  came  sweeping  down  on  me 
like  a  flood.  What  work  you  are  in  the  midst  of  !  What  a 
life  !  What  a  purpose  !  While  I — I  am  lying  here  like  an 
old  slipper  thrown  up  on  the  sea-beach.  Oh,  the  pity  oft, 
the  pity  oft !  It  must  be  glorious  to  be  in  the  rvish  and 
swirl  of  all  this  splendid  effort,  whatever  comes  of  it !  One's 
soul  is  thrilled,  one's  heart  expands  !  As  for  me,  the  garden 
of  my  mind  is  withering,  and  I  am  consuming  the  seed  I 
ought  to  sow. 

"  Rosa  has  come.  She  has  been  here  a  month  nearly,  and 
is  just  charming,  say  what  you  will.  Her  thoughts  have 
the  dash  of  the  great  world,  and  I  love  to  hear  her  talk. 
True,  she  troubles  me  sometimes,  but  that's  only  my  envy 
and  malice  and  all  uncharitableness.  When  she  tells  of 
Betty-this  and  Ellen-that,  and  their  wonderful  successes  and 
triumphs,  I'm  the  meanest  sinner  that  crawls. 

"  It's  funny  to  see  how  the  old  folk  bear  themselves 
toward  her.  Aunt  Rachel  regards  her  as  a  sort  of  an  artist, 
and  is  clearly  afraid  that  she  will  break  out  into  madness 
in  spots  somewhere.  Aunt  Anna  disapproves  of  her  hair, 
which  is  brushed  up  like  a  man's,  and  of  her  skirt,  which 
'  would  be  no  worse  if  it  were  less  like  a  pair  of  breeches,' 
for  she  has  brought  her  'bike.'  She  talks  on  dangerous 
subjects  also,  and  nobody  did  such  things  in  auntie's  young 
days.  Then  she  addresses  the  old  girlies  as  I  do,  and  calls 
grandfather  '  Grand-dad,'  and  like  the  witch  of  Endor  gen- 
erally, is  possessed  of  a  familiar  spirit.  Of  course  I  give 
her  various  warning  looks  from  time  to  time  lest  the  fat 
should  be  in  the  fire,  but  she's  a  woman,  bless  her !  and  it's 
as  true  as  ever  it  was  that  a  woman  can  keep  the  secret  she 
doesn't  know. 


THE   DEVIL'S  ACRE.  343 

"Yes,  the  ideal  of  womanhood  has  changed  since  the  old 
aunties  were  young ;  but  when  I  listen  to  Rosa  and  then 
look  over  at  Rachel  with  her  black  ringlets,  and  at  Anna 
with  her  old-fashioned  '  front,'  I  shudder  and  ask  myself, 
'  Why  do  I  struggle  ? '  What  is  the  reward  if  one  gives 
up  the  fascination  of  life  and  the  world  ?  There  is  no  re- 
ward. Nothing  but  solitary  old-raaidism,  unless  two  of  you 
happen  to  be  sisters,  for  who  else  will  join  her  shame  to 
yours  ?  Dreams,  dreams,  only  dx*eams  of  the  dearest  thing 
that  ever  comes  into  a  woman's  arms — and  then  you  awake 
and  there  is  no  one  there.  A  dame's  school,  when  the  old 
father  is  gone,  but  no  children  of  your  own  to  love  you, 
nobody  to  think  of  you,  scraping  a  little  here,  pinching  a 
little  there,  growing  older  and  smaller  year  by  year,  looldng 
yellow  and  craned  like  an  apple  that  has  been  kept  on  the 
top  shelf  too  long,  and  then — the  end  ! 

"  Oh,  but  I'm  trying  so  hard,  so  veiy  hard,  to  be  'true  to 
the  higher  self  in  me,'  because  somebody  says  I  must.  What 
do  you  think  I  did  last  week  ?  In  my  character  of  Lady 
Bountiful  I  gave  an  old  folks'  supper  in  the  soup  kitchen, 
understood  to  be  in  honour  of  my  return.  Roast  beef  and 
plum  dutf,  not  to  speak  of  pipes  and  'baccy,  and  fortj'  old 
people  of  both  sexes  sitting  down  to  '  the  do.'  After  supper 
there  was  a  concert,  when  Chaise  (the  fat  old  thief !)  over- 
flowed the  '  elber  '  chair,  and  alluded  to  me  as  '  our  beautiful 
donor,'  and  lured  me  into  singing  Mylecharaine,  and  lead- 
ing the  company,  when  we  closed  with  the  doxology. 

"  But  '  it  was  not  myself  at  all,  Molly  dear,  'twas  my 
shadow  on  the  wall,'  and  in  any  case  man  can't  live  by 
soup  kitchens  alone — nor  woman  either.  And  knowing 
what  a  poor,  weak,  vain  woman  I  am  at  the  best.  I  ask  my- 
self sometimes  would  it  not  be  a  thousand  times  better  if  I 
yielded  to  my  true  nature  instead  of  struggling  to  realize  a 
bloodless  ideal  that  is  not  me  in  the  least,  but  only  m}-  pic- 
ture in  the  heart  of  some  one  who  thinks  me  so  much  better 
than  I  am  ? 

"  Not  that  anybody  ever  sees  what  a  hypocrite  I  can  be, 
though  I  came  near  to  letting  the  cat  out  of  the  bag  as  lately 
as  last  night.  You  must  know  that  when  I  turned  my  back 
on  London  at  the  command  of  John  Knox  the  second,  I 


544 


THE  CHRISTIAN. 


brought  all  my  beautiful  dresses  along  with  me,  except  such 
of  them  as  were  left  at  the  theatre.  Yet  I  daren't  lay  them 
out  in  the  drawers,  so  I  kept  them  under  lock  and  key  in  my 
boxes.  There  they  lurked  like  evil  spirits  in  ambush,  and 
as  often  as  their  perfume  escaped  into  the  room  my  eyes 
watered  for  another  sight  of  them  !  But  in  spite  of  all  temp- 
tation I  resisted,  I  conquered,  I  triumphed — until  last  night 
when  Eosa  talked  of  Juliet,  what  a  glorious  creature  she 
was,  and  how  there  was  nobody  on  the  stage  who  could 
'  look '  her  and  '  play  '  her  too  ! 

"  What  do  you  think  I  did  ?  Shall  I  tell  you  ?  Yes,  I 
will.  I  crept  upstairs  to  my  quiet  little  room,  tugged  the 
box  from  its  hiding-place  under  the  bed,  drew  out  my 
dresses — my  lovely,  lovely  brocades — and  put  them  on ! 
Then  I  spoke  the  potion  speech,  beginning  in  a  whisper,  but 
getting  louder  as  I  went  on,  and  always  looking  at  myself 
in  the  glass.  I  had  blown  out  the  candle,  and  there  was  no 
light  in  the  room  but  the  moon  that  was  shining  on  my 
face,  but  I  was  glowing,  my  very  soul  was  afire,  and  when 
I  came  to  the  end  I  drew  myself  up  with  eyes  closed  and 
head  thrown  back  and  heart  that  paused  a  beat  or  two,  and 
said,  '  I— I  am  Juliet,  for  I  am  a  gTeat  actress  ! ' 

"  Oh,  oh,  oh  !  I  could  scream  with  laughter  to  think  of 
what  happened  next !  Suddenly  I  became  aware  of  some- 
body knocking  at  my  door  (I  had  locked  it)  and  of  a  thin 
voice  outside  saying  fretfully :  '  Glory,  whatever  is  it  ? 
Aren't  you  well.  Glory  ? '  It  was  the  little  auntie ;  and 
thinking  what  a  shock  she  would  have  if  I  opened  the  door 
and  she  came  upon  this  grand  Italian  lady  instead  of  poor 
little  me,  I  liad  to  laugh  and  to  make  excuses  while  I  smug- 
gled ofif  my  gorgeous  things  and  got  back  into  my  plain 
ones! 

"  It  was  a  narrow  squeak  ;  but  I  had  a  narrower  one 
some  days  before.  Poor  grandfather  !  He  regards  Eosa  as 
belonging  to  a  superior  race,  and  loves  to  ask  her  what  she 
thinks  of  Glory.  He  has  grown  quite  simple  lately,  and  as 
soon  as  he  thinks  my  back  is  turned  he  is  always  saying, 
'  And  what  is  your  opinion  of  my  granddaughter,  Miss  Mac- 
quarrie  ?'  To  which  she  aii.swers,  "Glory  is  going  to  make 
your  name  immortal,  Mr.  C^Juayle.'     Then  his  eyes  sparkle 


THE   DEVIL'S  ACRE.  345 

and  he  says,  '  Do  you  think  so  ? — do  you  really  think  so  ? ' 
Whereupon  she  talks  further  balderdash,  and  the  dear  old 
darling  smiles  a  triumphant  smile  ! 

"  But  I  always  notice  that  not  long  afterward  his  eyes 
look  wet  and  his  head  hangs  low,  and  he  is  saying  to  the 
aunties,  with  a  crack  in  his  voice  :  '  She'll  go  away  again. 
You'll  see  she  will.  Her  beauty  and  her  talents  belong  to 
tlie  world.'  And  then  I  burst  in  on  them  and  scold  them, 
and  tell  them  not  to  talk  nonsense. 

"  Nevertheless  he  is  beginning  to  regard  Rosa  with  sus- 
picion, as  if  she  were  a  witch  luring  me  away,  and  one 
evening  last  week  we  had  to  steal  into  the  garden  to  talk 
that  we  might  escape  from  his  watchful  eyes.  The  sun  had 
set — there  was  the  red  glow  behind  tlie  castle  across  the  sky 
and  the  sea,  and  we  were  walking  on  the  low  path  by  the 
river  under  the  fuchsia  hedge  that  hangs  over  from  the 
lawn,  you  know.  Rosa  was  talking  with  her  impetuous 
dash  of  the  great  career  open  to  any  one  who  could  win  the 
world  in  London,  how  there  were  people  enough  to  help 
her  on,  rich  men  to  find  her  opportunities,  and  even  to  take 
theatres  for  her  if  need  be.  And  I  was  hesitating  and  halt- 
ing and  stammering :  '  Yes,  yes,  if  it  were  the  regular  stage 
.  .  .  who  knows  ?  .  .  .  perhajis  it  might  not  be  opened  to 
the  same  objections,  .  .  .'  when  suddenly  the  leaves  of  the 
fuchsia  rustled  as  with  a  gust  of  wind,  and  we  heard  foot- 
steps on  the  path  above. 

"  It  was  the  grandfather,  who  had  come  out  on  Rachel's 
arm  and  overheard  what  I  had  said  !  '  It's  Glory  ! '  he  fal- 
tered, and  then  I  heard  him  take  his  snuff  and  blow  his  nose 
as  if  to  cover  his  confusion,  tbinking  I  was  deceiving  them 
and  carrying  on  a  secret  intercourse.  I  hardly  know  what 
happened  next,  except  that  for  the  five  minutes  following 
•  the  great  actress '  had  to  talk  with  the  tongues  of  men  and 
angels  (Beelzebub's)  in  order  to  throw  dust  in  the  dear  old 
eyes  and  drive  away  their  doubts.  It  was  a  magnificent 
performance,  'you  go  bail.'  I'll  never  do  the  like  of  it 
again,  though  I  had  only  one  old  man  and  one  old  maid 
and  one  young  woman  for  audience.  The  house  '  rose  '  at  me 
too,  and  the  jjoor  old  grandfather  was  appeased.  But  when 
we  were  back  indoors  I  overheard  him  saying:  'After  all, 
23 


346  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

there's  no  help  for  it.  She's  dull  with  us — what  wonder ! 
We  can't  cage  our  linnet,  Rachel^  and  perhaps  we  shouldn't 
try.  A  song-bird  came  to  cheer  us.  but  it  will  fly  away. 
We  are  only  old  folks,  dear — it's  no  use  crying.'  And  on 
going  to  his  room  that  night  he  closed  his  door  and  said  his 
prayei'S  in  a  whisper,  that  I  might  not  hear  him  when  he 
sobbed. 

"He  hasn't  left  his  bed  since.  I  fear  he  never  will. 
More  than  once  I  have  been  on  the  point  of  telling  him 
there  is  no  reason  to  think  the  deluge  would  come  if  I  did 
go  back  to  London  ;  but  I  will  never  leave  him  now.  Yet 
I  wish  Aunt  Rachel  wouldn't  talk  so  much  of  the  days 
when  I  went  away  before.  It  seems  that  every  night,  on 
his  way  to  his  own  room,  he  used  to  step  into  my  empty 
one  and  come  out  with  his  eyes  dim  and  his  lips  moving, 
I  am  not  naturally  hard-hearted,  but  I  can't  love  grand- 
father like  that.  Oh,  the  cruelty  of  life !  .  .  .  I  know  it 
ought  to  be  the  other  way  about ;  .  .  .  but  I  can't  help  it. 

"  All  the  same  I  could  cry  to  think  how  short  life  is,  and 
how  little  of  it  I  can  spare.  '  Cling  fast  to  me  and  hold  me,' 
my  heai't  is  alwaj^s  saying,  but  meantime  London  is  calling 
to  me,  calling  to  me,  like  the  sea,  and  I  feel  as  if  I  were  a 
wandering  mermaid  and  she  were  my  ocean  home. 

"  Later.— Poor,  poor  grandfather  !  I  was  interrupted  in 
the  writing  of  my  letter  this  morning  by  another  of  those 
sudden  alarms.  He  had  fainted  again,  and  it  is  extraordi- 
nary how  helpless  the  aunties  are  in  a  case  of  illness. 
Grandfather  knows  it  too ;  and  after  I  had  done  all  I  could 
to  bring  him  round,  he  opened  his  eyes  and  whispered  that 
he  liad  something  to  say  to  me  alone.  At  that  the  poor  old 
things  left  tlio  room  witli  tears  of  woe  and  a  look  of  under- 
standing. Tlien  fetcliing  a  difficult  breath  he  said,  '  Fow 
are  not  afraid.  Glory,  are  you  ?'  and  I  answered  him  'No,' 
though  my  heart  was  trembling.  And  then  a  feeble  smile 
struggled  througli  the  wan  features  of  his  drawn  face,  and 
he  told  me  his  attack  was  only  another  summons.  '  I'll  soon 
die  for  good,'  he  said,  '  and  you  must  be  strong  and  brave, 
my  cliild,  for  deatli  is  the  common  lot,  and  then  what  is 
tlicre  to  fear  ? '     I  didn't  try  to  contradict  him— what  was 


THE   DEVIL'S  ACRE.  347 

the  good  of  doing  that  ?  And  after  he  had  spoken  of  the 
coming  time  he  talked  quietly  of  his  past  life,  how  he  had 
weathered  the  storm  for  seventy  odd  years,  and  his  Al- 
mighty Father  was  bringing  him  into  harbour  at  last.  '  I 
can't  pray  for  life  any  longer,  Glory.  Many  a  time  I  did  so 
in  the  old  days  when  I  had  to  bring  up  my  little  grand- 
daughter, but  my  task  is  over  now,  and  after  the  day  is 
done  where  is  the  tired  labourer  who  does  not  lie  down  to 
his  rest  with  a  will  ? ' 

"  The  doctor  has  been  and  gone.  There  is  no  ailment, 
and  nothing  to  be  done  or  hoped.  It  is  only  a  general 
failure  and  a  sinking  earthward  of  the  poor  worn-out  body 
as  the  soul  rises  to  the  heaven  that  is  waiting  to  receive  it. 
What  a  pagan  I  feel  beside  him  !  And  how  glad  I  am  that 
I  didn't  talk  of  leaving  him  again  when  he  was  on  the  eve 
of  his  far  longer  journey  !  I  have  sent  the  aunties  to  bed, 
but  Rosa  has  made  me  promise  to  awaken  her  at  four,  that 
she  may  take  her  turn  at  his  bedside. 

"  Next  Morning. — Rosa  relieved  me  during  the  night, 
and  I  came  to  my  room  and  lay  down  in  the  chill aess  of 
the  dawn.  But  now  I  am  sorry  that  I  allowed  her  to  do  so, 
for  I  did  not  sleep,  and  grandfather  appears  to  have  been 
troubled  with  dreams.  I  fancied  he  shuddered  a  little  as  I 
left  them  together,  and  more  than  once  through  the  wall  I 
heard  him  cry,  '  Bring  him  back ! '  in  the  toneless  voice  of 
one  who  is  labouring  uiider  the  terrors  of  a  nightmare. 
But  each  time  I  heard  Rosa  comforting  him,  so  I  lay  down 
again  without  going  in. 

"  Being  stronger  this  morning,  he  has  been  propped  up 
in  bed  writing  a  letter.  When  he  called  for  the  pens  and 
paper  I  asked  if  I  couldn't  write  it  for  him,  but  the  old 
darling  made  a  great  mystery  of  the  matter,  and  looked 
artful,  and  asked  if  it  was  usual  to  fight  your  enemy  with 
his  own  powder  and  shot.  Of  course  I  humoured  him  and 
pretended  to  be  mighty  curious,  though  I  think  I  know  who 
the  letter  was  written  to,  all  the  same  that  he  kept  the  address 
side  of  the  envelope  hidden  even  when  the  front  of  it  was 
being  sealed.  He  sealed  it  with  sealing-wax,  and  I  held  the 
candle  while  he  did  so,  with  his  poor  trembling  fingers  in 


343 


THE  CHRISTIAN. 


danger  from   the  light,  and  then   I   stamped  it  with  my 
mother's  pearl  ring,  and  he  smuggled  it  under  the  pillow. 

"  Since  breakfast  he  has  shown  an  increased  inclination 
to  doze,  but  there  have  been  visits  from  the  wardens  and 
from  neighbouring  parsons,  for  a  locum,  tenens  has  had  to 
be  appointed.  Of  course,  they  have  all  inquired  where  his 
l)ain  is,  and  on  being  told  that  he  has  none,  they  have  gone 
downstairs  cackling  and  clucking  and  crowing  in  various 
versions  of  '  Praise  God  for  that ! '  I  hate  people  who  are 
always  singing  the  doxology. 

"  Noon. — Condition  unchanged,  except  that  in  the  inter- 
vals of  drowsiness  his  mind  has  wandered  a  little.  He  ap- 
pears to  live  in  the  past.  Looking  at  me  with  conscious 
eyes,  he  calls  me  '  Lancelot ' — my  father's  name.  It  has 
been  so  all  the  morning.  One  would  think  he  was  walking 
in  a  twilight  land  where  he  mistakes  people's  faces  and  the 
dead  are  as  much  alive  as  the  living. 

"  They  all  think  I  am  brave,  oh,  so  brave  !  because  I  do 
not  cry  now,  as  everybody  else  does — even  Aunt  Anna  be- 
hind her  apron — although  my  tears  can  flow  so  easily,  and 
at  other  times  I  keep  them  constantly  on  tap.  But  I  am 
really  afraid,  and  down  at  the  bottom  of  my  heart  I  am 
terrified.  It  is  just  as  if  something  were  coming  into  the 
house  slowly,  irresistibly,  awfully,  and  casting  its  shadow 
on  the  floor  already. 

"  I  have  found  out  the  cause  of  his  outcries  in  the  night. 
Aunt  Rachel  says  he  was  dreaming  of  my  father's  departui'e 
for  Africa.  That  was  twenty-two  years  ago,  but  it  seems 
that  the  memory  of  the  last  day  has  troubled  him  a  good 
deal  lately.  '  Don't  you  remember  it  ? '  he  has  been  saying. 
'  There  wei-c  no  railways  in  the  island  then,  and  we  stood  at 
the  gate  to  watch  the  coach  that  was  taking  him  away.  He 
sat  on  the  top  and  waved  his  red  handkerchief.  And  when 
he  had  gone,  and  it  was  no  use  watching,  we  turned  back  to 
the  house — you  and  Anna  and  poor,  pretty  young  Elise. 
He  never  came  back,  and  when  Glory  goes  again  she'll 
never  come  back  either.' 

'"In  the  intervals  of  liis  semi-consciousness,  when  he 
mistakes  me  for  my  father,  my  wonderful   bravery  often 


THE   DEVIL'S  ACRE.  349 

fails  me,  and  I  find  excuses  for  going  out  of  the  room.  Then 
I  creep  noiselessly  through  the  house  and  listen  at  half- 
open  doors.  Just  now  I  heard  him  talking  quite  rationally 
to  Rachel,  but  in  a  voice  that  seemed  to  speak  inwardly,  not 
outwardly,  as  before.  '  She  can't  help  it,  poor  child  I '  he  said. 
'  Some  day  she'll  know  what  it  is,  but  not  yet,  not  until  she 
has  a  child  of  her  own.  The  race  looks  forward,  not  back- 
ward. God  knew  when  he  created  us  that  the  world  couldn't 
go  on  without  that  bit  of  cruelty,  and  wlio  am  I  that  I  should 
complain  ? ' 

"  I  couldn't  bear  it  any  longer,  and  with  a  pain  at  my 
heart  I  ran  in  and  cried,  '  I'll  never  leave  you,  grandfather.' 
But  he  only  smiled  and  said,  '  I'll  not  be  keeping  you  long. 
Glory,  I'll  not  be  keeping  you  long,'  and  then  I  could  have 
died  for  shame. 

"  Evening. — All  afternoon  he  has  been  like  a  child,  and 
everything  present  to  his  consciousness  seems  to  have  been 
reversed.  The  shadow  of  eternity  appears  to  have  wiped 
out  time.  When  I  have  raised  him  up  in  bed  he  has  de- 
lighted to  think  he  was  a  little  boy  in  his  young  mother's 
arms.  Oh,  sweet  dream  !  The  old  man  with  his  furrowed 
forehead  and  beautiful  white  head  and  all  the  heavy  years 
rolled  back !  More  than  once  he  has  asked  me  if  he  may 
play  till  bedtime,  and  I  have  stroked  his  wrinkled  hands 
and  told  him  '  Yes,'  for  I  pretend  to  be  his  mother,  who  died 
Avhen  she  was  old. 

"But  the  'part'  is  almost  too  much  for  me,  and,  lest  I 
should  break  down  under  the  strain  of  it,  I  am  going  out  of 
his  room  constantly.  I  have  just  been  into  his  study.  It 
is  as  full  as  ever  of  his  squeezes  and  rubbings  and  plaster 
casts  and  dusty  old  runes.  He  has  spent  all  his  life  away 
])ack  in  the  tenth  century,  and  now  he  is  going  farther, 
farther.  .  .  . 

"  Oh,  I'm  aweary,  aweary !  If  anything  happens  to 
grandfather  I  shall  soon  leave  this  place  ;  there  will  be  noth- 
ing to  hold  me  here  any  longer,  and  besides  I  could  not 
bear  the  sight  of  these  evidences  of  his  gentle  presence,  so 
simple,  so  touching.  But  what  a  vain  thing  London  is 
with  all  its  vast  ado — how  little,  how  pitiful  I 


350 


THE  CHRISTIAN. 


"  Later. — It  is  all  over  !  The  cm-tain  has  fallen,  and  I 
am  not  crying.  If  I  did  cry  it  would  not  be  from  gi'ief,  but 
because  the  end  was  so  beautiful,  so  glorious !  It  was  at 
sunset,  and  the  sti*earners  of  the  sun  Avere  coming  horizon- 
tally into  the  room.  He  awoke  from  a  long  drowsiness,  and 
a  serenity  almost  angelic  overspread  his  face.  I  could  see  that 
he  was  himself  once  again.  Death  had  led  him  back  through 
the  long  years  since  he  was  a  child,  and  he  knew  he  was  an 
old  man  and  I  a  young  woman.  '  Have  the  boats  gone  yet? ' 
he  asked,  meaning  the  herring  boats  that  go  at  sunset.  I 
looked  out  and  told  him  they  were  at  the  point  of  going. 
'  Let  me  see  them  sail,'  he  said,  so  I  slipped  my  arms  about 
him  and  raised  him  until  he  was  sitting  up  and  could  see 
down  the  length  of  the  harbour  and  past  the  castle  to  the 
sea.  The  reflection  of  the  sunlight  was  about  his  silvery 
old  head,  and  over  the  damps  and  chills  of  death  it  made  a 
radiance  on  his  face  like  a  light  from  heaven.  There  was 
hardly  a  breeze,  and  the  boats  were  dropping  down  from 
their  berths  with  their  brown  sails  half  set.  '  Ah,'  he  said, 
'it's  the  other  way  with  me,  Glory.  I'm  coming  in,  not 
going  out.  I've  been  beating  to  windward  all  my  life,  but  I 
see  the  harbour  on  my  lee-bow  at  last  as  plainly  as  I  ever 
saw  Peel,  and  now  I'm  only  waiting  for  the  top  of  the  tide 
and  the  master  of  the  port  to  run  up  the  flag! ' 

"  Then  his  head  fell  gently  back  on  my  arm  and  his  lips 
changed  colour,  but  his  eyes  did  not  close,  and  over  his 
saintly  face  there  passed  a  fleeting  smile.  Thus  died  a  Chris- 
tian gentleman:— a  simple,  sunny,  merry,  happy,  childlike 
creature,  and  of  such  are  the  kingdom  of  heaven. 

"  Glory." 

Parson  Quayle's  Letter. 

"  Dear  John  :  Before  this  letter  reaches  you,  or  perhaps 
along  with  it,  you  will  receive  the  news  that  tells  you  what 
it  is.  I  am  '  in,'  John ;  I  can  say  no  more  than  that.  The 
doctor  tells  me  it  may  be  now  or  then  or  at  any  time.  But  I 
am  looking  for  my  enlargement  soon,  and  whether  it  comes 
to-morrow  sunset  or  with  to-day's  next  tide  I  leave  myself 
in  His  hands  in  whose  hands  we  all  are.  Well  has  the 
wise  man  said,  '  The  day  of  our  death  is  better  than  the  day 


THE  DEVIL'S  ACRE.  351 

of  our  birth,'  so  with  all  good  will,  and  what  legacy  of 
strength  old  age  has  left  to  me,  I  send  you  my  last  word 
and  message. 

"  My  poor  old  daughters  are  sorely  stricken,  but  Glory  is 
still  brave  and  true,  being,  as  she  always  was,  a  quivering 
bow  of  steel.  People  tell  me  that  the  poor  mother  is  strong 
in  the  girl,  and  the  spirit  of  the  mother's  race ;  but  well  I 
know  the  father's  stalwart  soul  supports  her;  and  I  pray 
God  that  when  my  dark  hour  comes  her  loviiig  and  cour- 
ageous arms  may  be  around  me. 

'"That  brings  me  to  the  object  of  my  letter.  This  living 
will  soon  be  vacant,  and  I  am  wondering  who  will  follow  in 
my  feeble  steps.  It  is  a  sweet  spot,  John  !  The  old  church 
does  not  look  so  ill  when  the  sun  shines  on  it.  and  in  the 
summer-time  this  old  garden  is  full  of  fruit  and  flowers. 
Did  I  ever  tell  you  that  Glory  was  born  here  ?  I  never  had 
another  grandchild,  and  we  were  gi-eat  comrades  from  the 
first.  She  was  a  wise  and  winsome  little  thing,  and  I  was 
only  an  old  child  myself,  so  we  had  many  a  run  and  romp 
in  these  grounds  together.  When  I  try  to  think  of  the 
place  without  her  it  is  a  vain  effox't  and  a  painful  one  :  and 
even  while  she  was  away  in  your  great  and  wicked  Baby- 
lon, with  its  dangers  and  temptations,  her  little  ghost  seemed 
to  lurk  at  the  back  of  every  bush  and  tree,  and  sometimes 
it  would  leap  out  on  me  and  laugh. 

"  It  is  months  since  I  saw  your  father,  but  they  tell  me 
he  has  lately  burned  his  bureau,  making  one  vast  bonfire  of 
the  gatherings  of  twenty  years.  That  is  not  such  ill  news 
either;  and  maybe,  now  the  great  ado  that  worked  such 
woe  is  put  by  and  gone,  he  would  rejoice  to  see  you  back 
at  home,  and  open  his  hungering  arms  to  you. 

"  But  my  eyes  ache  and  my  pen  is  shaking.     Farewell ! 

Farewell !     Farewell !     An  old  man  leaves  you  his  blessing. 

John.     God  grant  that  in  his  own  good  time  we  may  meet 

in  a  blessed  paradise,  rejoicing  in  his  gracious  mercy,  and 

all  our  sins  forgiven !  „  .  ^  „ 

"Adam  Quayle.' 


352 


THE  CHRISTIAN. 


Glory's  letter  and  its  inclosure  fell  on  John  Storm  like 
raiu  in  the  face  of  a  man  on  horseback — he  only  whipped 
up  and  went  faster. 

"How  can  I  find  words,"  he  wrote,  "to  express  what  I 
feel  at  your  mournful  news  ?  Yet  why  mournful  ?  His 
life's  mission  was  fulfilled,  his  death  was  a  peaceful  victory, 
and  we  ought  to  rejoice  that  he  was  so  easily  released.  I 
trust  you  will  not  mourn  too  heavily  for  him,  or  allow  his 
death  to  stop  your  life.  It  would  not  be  right.  No  trouble 
came  near  his  stainless  heart,  no  shadow  of  sin  ;  his  old  age 
was  a  peaceful  day  which  lasted  until  sunset.  He  was  a 
creature  that  had  no  falsetto  in  a  single  fibre  of  his  being, 
no  shadow  of  affectation.  He  kept  like  this  through  all  our 
complicated  existence  in  this  artificial  world,  absolutely  un- 
conscious of  the  hollowness  and  pretension  and  sham  that 
surrounded  him — tolerant,  too,  and  kind  to  all.  Then  why 
mourn  for  him  ?    He  is  gathered  in— he  is  safe. 

"  His  letter  was  touching  in  its  artful  simplicity.  It  was 
intended  to  ask  me  to  apply  for  his  living.  But  my  duty  is 
here,  and  London  must  make  the  best  of  me.  Yet  more 
than  ever  now  I  feel  my  responsibility  with  regard  to  your- 
self. The  time  is  not  ripe  to  advise  you.  I  am  on  the  eve 
of  a  great  effort.  Many  things  have  to  be  tried,  many  things 
attempted.  It  is  a  gathering  of  manna— a  little  every  day. 
To  God's  keeping  and  protection  meantime  I  commit  you. 
Comfort  your  aunts,  and  let  me  know  if  there  is  anything 
that  can  be  done  for  them."' 

The  ink  of  this  letter  v/as  hardly  dry  when  John  Storm 
was  in  the  middle  of  something  else.  He  was  in  a  continual 
fever  now.  Above  all,  his  great  scheme  for  the  rescue  and 
redemption  of  women  and  children  possessed  him.  He 
called  it  Glory's  scheme  when  he  talked  of  it  to  himself. 
It  might  be  in  the  teeth  of  nineteenth-century  morality,  but 
what  nuitter  about  that?  It  was  on  the  lines  of  Christ's 
teacliing  when  he  forgave  the  woman  and  shamed  the  hypo- 
crites. He  would  borrow  for  it,  beg  for  it,  and  there  might 
be  conditions  under  which  he  would  steal  for  it  too. 


THE   DEVIL'S  ACRE.  353 

Mrs.  Callender  shook  her  head. 

"  I  much  misdoubt  there'll  be  scandal,  laddie.  It's  a 
woman's  work,  I'm  thinking." 

"  '  Be  thou  as  chaste  as  ice,'  atmtie, '  as  pure  as  snow  '  .  .  . 
but  no  matter !  I  intend  to  call  out  the  full  power  of  a 
united  Church  into  the  warfare  against  this  high  wicked- 
ness. Talk  of  the  union  of  Christendom  !  If  we  are  in  ear- 
nest about  it  we'll  unite  to  protect  and  liberate  our  women." 

'•  But  where's  the  siller  to  come  frae,  laddie  ? " 

"Anywhere — everywhere  !  Besides,  I  have  a  bank  I  can 
always  draw  on,  auntie." 

"  You're  no  meaning  the  Prime  Minister  again,  surely  ? " 

"  I  mean  the  King  of  Kings.  God  will  provide  for  me, 
in  this,  as  in  everything." 

Thus  his  reckless  enthusiasm  bore  down  everything,  and 
at  the  back  of  all  his  thoughts  was  the  thought  of  Glory. 
He  was  preparing  a  way  for  her  ;  she  was  coming  back  to  a 
great  career,  a  glorious  mission  ;  her  bright  soul  would  shine 
like  a  star ;  she  would  see  that  he  had  been  right,  and  faith- 
ful, and  then — then But  it  was  like  wine  coursing 

through  liis  veins — he  could  not  think  of  it. 

Three  thousand  pounds  had  to  be  found  to  buy  or  build 
homes  with,  and  he  set  out  to  beg  for  the  money.  His  first 
call  was  at  Mrs.  Macrae's.  Going  up  to  the  house,  he  met 
the  lady's  poodle  in  a  fawn-coloured  wrap  coming  out  in 
charge  of  a  footman  for  its  daily  walk  round  the  square. 

He  gave  the  name  of  "  Father  Storm,"  and  after  some 
minutes  of  waiting  he  was  told  that  the  lady  had  a  headache 
and  was  not  receiving  that  day. 

"Say  the  nephew  of  the  Prime  Minister  wishes  to  see 
her,"  said  John. 

Before  the  footman  had  returned  again  there  was  the 
gentle  rustle  of  a  dress  on  the  stairs,  and  the  lady  herself 
was  saying :  "  Dear  Mr.  Storm,  come  up.  My  servants  are 
real  tii-esome,  they  are  always  confusing  names." 

Time  had  told  on  her ;  she  was  looking  ejderly,  and  the 
wrinkles  about  her  eyes  could  no  longer  be  smoothed  out. 
But  her  "  front "  was  curled,  and  she  was  still  saturated  in 
perfume. 

"  I  heard  of  your  return,  dear  Mr.  Storm,"  she  said,  in  the 


354:  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

languid  voice  of  the  great  lady,  but  the  accent  of  St.  Louis, 
as  she  led  the  way  to  the  drawing-room.  "My  daughter 
told  me  about  it.  She  was  always  interested  in  your  work, 
you  know.  .  .  .  Oh,  yes,  quite  well,  and  having  a  real  good 
time  in  Paris.  Of  course,  you  know  she  has  been  married. 
A  great  loss  to  me  naturally,  but  being  God's  will  I  felt  it 
was  my  duty  as  a  mother "  and  then  a  pathetic  descrip- 
tion of  her  maternal  sentiments,  consoled  by  the  circum- 
stance that  her  son-in-law  belonged  to  "  one  of  the  best  fami- 
lies," and  that  she  was  constantly  getting  newspapers  from 
"  the  other  side "  containing  full  accounts  of  the  wedding 
and  of  the  dresses  that  were  worn  at  it. 

John  twirled  his  hat  in  his  hand  and  listened. 

"And  what  are  your  dear  devoted  people  doing  down 
there  in  Soho  ? " 

Then  John  told  of  his  work  for  working  girls,  and  the 
great  lady  pretended  to  be  deeply  interested.  "  Why,  they'll 
soon  be  better  than  the  upper  classes,"  she  said. 

John  thought  it  was  not  improbable,  but  he  went  on  to 
tell  of  his  scheme,  and  how  small  was  the  sum  required  for 
its  execution. 

"  Only  three  thousand !  That  ought  to  be  easily  fixed 
up.     Why,  certainly  !  " 

"  Charity  is  the  salt  of  riches,  madam,  and  if  rich  people 
would  remember  that  their  wealth  is  a  trust " 

"  I  do — I  always  do.  '  Lay  not  up  for  yourselves  treasure 
on  earth ' — what  a  beautiful  text  that  is  ! " 

"  I'm  glad  to  hear  you  say  so,  madam.  So  many  Chris- 
tian people  allow  that  God  is  the  God  of  the  widow  and 
fatherless,  while  the  gods  they  really  worship  are  the  gods 
of  silver  and  gold." 

"  But  I  love  the  dear  children,  and  I  like  to  go  to  the  in- 
stitution to  see  them  in  their  nice  white  pinafores  making 
their  curtsies.  But  what  you  say  is  real  true,  Mr.  Storm ; 
and  since  I  came  from  Sent  Louis  I've  seen  considerable 

people  who  are  that  silly  about  cats "  and  then  a  long 

story  of  the  folly  of  a  lady  friend  who  once  had  a  pet  Per- 
sian, but  it  died,  and  she  wore  crape  for  it,  and  you  could 
never  mention  n  eat  in  lier  hearing  afterward. 

At  that  moment  the  poodle  came  back  from  its  walk,  and 


THE  DEVIL'S  ACRE.  355 

the  lady  called  it  to  her,  fondled  it  affectionately,  said  it  was 
a  present  from  her  poor  dear  husband,  and  launched  into  an 
account  of  her  anxieties  respecting  it,  being-  delicate  and. 
liable  to  colds,  notwithstanding  the  trousseau  (it  was  a  lady 
poodle)  which  the  fashionable  dog  tailor  in  Regent  Street 
had  provided  for  it. 

John  got  up  to  take  his  leave.  "  May  I  then  count  on 
your  kind  support  on  behalf  of  our  poor  women  and  chil- 
dren of  Soho  ? " 

"Ah,  of  course,  that  matter — well,  you  see  the  Arch- 
deacon kindly  comes  to  talk  '  City '  with  me — in  fact,  I'm 
expecting  him  to-day — and  I  never  do  anything  without 
asking  his  advice,  never,  in  my  present  state  of  health — I 
have  a  weak  heart,  you  know,"  with  her  head  aside  and  her 
saturated  pocket-handkerchief  at  her  nose.  "  But  has  the 
Prime  Minister  done  anything  ? " 

"  He  has  advanced  me  two  thousand  pounds." 

"  Really  ? "  rising  and  kicking  back  her  train.  "  Well, 
as  I  say,  we  ought  to  fix  it  right  away.  Why  not  hold  a 
meeting  in  my  drawing-room  ?  All  denominations,  you 
say  ?  I  don't  mind — not  in  a  cause  like  that,"  and  she 
glanced  round  her  room  as  if  thinking  it  was  always  pos- 
sible to  disinfect  it  afterward. 

Somebody  was  coughing  loudly  in  the  hall  as  John 
stepped  downstairs.  It  was  the  Archdeacon  coming  in. 
"Ah,"  he  exclaimed,  with  a  flourish  of  the  hand,  greeting 
John  as  if  they  had  parted  yesterday  and  on  the  best  of 
terms.  Yes,  there  had  been  changes,  and  he  was  promoted 
to  a  sphere  of  higher  usefulness.  True,  his  good  friends  had 
looked  for  something  still  higher,  but  it  was  the  premier 
arclideaconry  at  all  events,  and  in  the  Church,  as  in  life 
generally,  the  spirit  of  compi'omise  ruled  everything.  He 
asked  what  John  was  doing,  and  on  being  told  he  said,  with 
a  somewhat  more  worldly  air,  "  Be  careful,  my  dear  Storm, 
don't  encourage  vice.  For  my  part,  I  am  tired  of  the  '  fallen 
sister.'  To  tell  you  the  truth,  I  deny  the  name.  The  painted 
Jezebel  of  the  Piccadilly  pavement  is  no  sister  of  mine." 

"  We  don't  choose  our  relations,  Archdeacon,"  said  John. 
"  If  God  is  our  Father,  then  all  men  are  our  brothers,  and 
all  women  are  our  sisters  whether  we  like  it  or  not." 


356 


THE  CHRISTIAN 


"  All !  The  same  man  still,  I  see.  But  we  will  not  quar- 
rel about  words.  Seen  the  dear  Prime  Minister  lately  1 
Not  very  lately.?  Ah,  well  "—with  a  superior  smile—"  the 
air  of  Downing  Street— it's  so  bad  for  the  memory,  they  say," 
and  coughing'  loudly  again,  he  stepped  upstairs. 

John  Storm  went  home  that  day  light-handed  but  with 
a  heavy  heart. 

"  Begging  is  an  ill  trade  on  a  fast  day,  laddie,"  said  Mrs. 
Callender.     "  Sit  you  down  and  tak'  some  dinner." 

"  How  dare  these  people  pray,  '  Our  Father  which  art  in 
heaven  ? '     It's  blasphemy !     It's  deceit  I " 

"  Aye,  and  they  would  deceive  Qod  about  their  dividends 
if  he  couldn't  see  into  their  safes." 

"  Their  money  is  the  meanest  thing  Heaven  gives  them. 
If  I  asked  them  for  their  health  or  their  happiness.  Lord 
God,  what  would  they  say  ? " 

On  the  Sunday  night  following*  John  Storm  preached  to 
an  overflowing  congregation  from  the  text,  "  This  people 
draweth  nigh  unto  me  with  their  mouth  and  honoureth  me 
with  their  lips,  but  their  heart  is  far  from  me." 

But  a  few  weeks  afterward  his  face  was  bright  and  his 
voice  was  cheery,  and  he  was  writing  another  letter  to 
Glory: 

"  In  full  swing  at  last,  Glory.  To  carry  out  my  new  idea 
I  had  to  get  three  thousand  pounds  more  of  my  mother's 
money  from  my  uncle.  He  gave  it  up  cheerfully,  only  say- 
ing he  was  curious  to  see  what  approach  to  the  Christian 
ideal  the  situation  of  civilization  permitted.  But  Mrs.  Cal- 
lender is  dour,  and  every  time  I  spend  sixpence  of  my  own 
money  on  the  Church  she  utters  withering  sarcasms  about 
being  only  a  'daft  auld  woman  hersel','  and  then  I  have  to 
caress  and  coax  her. 

"  The  newspapers  were  facetious  about  my  '  Baby  Houses' 
until  they  scented  the  Prime  Minister  at  the  back  of  them, 
and  now  tliey  call  tliem  the  'Storm  Shelters,'  and  christen 
my  nightly  i)rocossions  '  The  White-cross  Army.'  Even  the 
Archdeacon  has  begun  to  tell  the  woi'ld  how  he  '  took  an 
interest'  in  me  from  the  first  and  gave  me  my  title,  I  met 
him  again  the  other  day  at  a  rich  woman's  house,  where  we 


THE   DEVIL'S  ACRE.  357 

had  only  one  little  spar,  and  yesterday  he  wrote  urging  me 
to  'organize  my  great  effort,'  and  have  a  public  dinner  in 
honour  of  its  inauguration.  I  did  not  think  God's  work 
could  be  well  done  by  people  dining  in  herds  and  drinking 
bottles  of  champagne,  but  I  showed  no  malice.  In  fact,  I 
agreed  to  hold  a  meeting  in  the  lady's  drawing-room,  to 
which  clergymen,  lajnnen,  and  members  of  all  denomina- 
tions ai-e  being  invited,  for  this  is  a  cause  that  rises  above 
all  differences  of  dogma,  and  I  intend  to  try  wliat  can  be 
done  toward  a  union  of  Christendom  on  a  social  basis.  Mrs. 
Callender  is  dour  on  that  subject  too,  reminding  me  that 
where  the  carcass  is  there  will  the  eagles  be  gathered  to- 
gether. The  Archdeacon  thinks  we  must  have  the  meeting 
before  the  twelfth  of  August,  or  not  until  after  the  middle 
of  September,  and  Mrs.  Callender  understands  this  to  mean 
that  '  the  Holy  Ghost  always  goes  to  sleep  in  the  grouse 
season.' 

"  Meantime  my  Girls'  Club  goes  like  a  forest  fire.  We 
are  in  our  renovated  clei'gy-house  at  last,  and  have  every- 
thing comfortable.  Two  hundred  members  already,  chiefly 
dressmakers  and  tailors,  and  girls  out  of  the  jam  and  match 
factories.  The  bright,  merry  young  things,  rejoicing  in 
their  brief  blossoming  time  between  girlhood  and  woman- 
hood. I  love  to  be  among  them  and  to  look  at  their  glisten- 
ing eyes !  Mrs.  Callender  blows  withering  blasts  on  this 
head  also,  saying  it  is  no  place  for  a  '  laddie,'  whereupon  I 
lie  low  and  think  much  but  say  nothing. 

"Our  great  night  is  Sunday  night  after  service.  Yes, 
indeed,  Sunday  !  That's  just  when  the  devil's  houses  are 
all  open  round  about  us,  and  why  should  God's  house  be 
shut  up  ?  It  is  all  very  well  for  the  people  who  have  only 
one  Sabbath  in  the  week  to  keep  it  wholly  holy — I  have 
seven,  being  a  follower  of  Jesus,  not  of  Moses.  But  the 
rector  of  the  parish  has  begi;n  to  complain  of  my  '  intru- 
sion,' and  to  tell  the  Bishop  I  ought  to  be  '  mended  or  ended.' 
It  seems  that  my  *  doings '  are  '  indecent  and  unnecessary,' 
and  my  sermons  ai'e  '  a  violation  of  all  the  sanctities,  all  the 
modesties  of  existence.'  Poor  dumb  dog,  teaching  the  Gos- 
pel of  Don't !  The  world  has  never  been  reformed  by  '  res- 
ignation '  to  the  evils  of  life,  or  converted  by  '  silence '  either. 


358 


THE  CHRISTIAN'. 


"  How  I  wish  you  were  here,  in  the  midst  of  it  all !  And 
—who  knows  ?— perliaps  you  will  be  some  day  yet.  Do  not 
trouble  to  answer  this— I  will  write  again  soon,  and  may 
then  have  something  practical  to  say  to  you,     Au  revoir ! " 


•XI. 

On  the  day  of  the  drawing-room  meeting  a  large  com- 
pany gathered  in  the  hall  at  Belgrave  Square.  Lady  Rob- 
ert tFre,  back  from  the  honeymoon,  received  the  guests  for 
her  mother,  whose  weak  heart  and  a  headache  kept  her  up- 
stairs. Her  husband  stood  aside,  chewing  the  end  of  his 
mustache  and  looking  through  his  eyeglass  with  a  gleam 
of  amused  interest  in  his  glittering  eye.  There  were  many 
ladies,  all  fashionably  dressed,  and  one  of  them  wore  a  sea- 
gull's wing  in  her  hat,  with  part  of  the  root,  left  visible  and 
painted  red  to  show  that  it  had  been  torn  out  of  the  living 
bird.  The  men  were  nearly  all  clergymen,  and  the  cut  of 
their  cloth  and  the  fashions  of  their  ties  indicated  the  various 
complexions  of  their  creeds.  They  glanced  at  each  other 
with  looks  of  embarrassment,  and  Mrs.  Callender,  who  came 
in  like  a  breeze  off  a  Scottish  moor,  said  audibly  that  she  had 
never  seen  "  sae  many  craws  on  one  tree  before."  The  Arch- 
deacon was  there  with  his  head  up,  talking  loudly  to  Lady 
Robert.  She  stood  motionless  in  her  place,  never  turning 
her  head  toward  John  Storm,  though  it  was  plain  that  she 
was  looking  at  him  constantly.  More  than  once  he  caught 
an  expression  of  pain  in  her  face,  and  felt  pity  for  her  as  07ie 
of  the  brides  who  had  acted  the  lie  of  marrying  without  love. 
But  his  spirits  were  high.  He  welcomed  everybody,  and  even 
bantered  Mrs.  Callender  when  she  told  him  she  ''objected 
to  tlie  hale  thing,"  and  said,  "  Woel,  weel,  wait  a  wee." 

The  Archdeacon  gave  the  signal  and  led  the  way  with 
Lady  Robert  to  the  drawing-room,  where  Mrs.  Macrae,  redo- 
lent of  perfume,  was  reclining  on  a  sofa  with  the  "lady 
poodle  "  by  her  side.  As  soon  as  the  company  were  seated 
the  Archdeacon  rose  and  coughed  loudly. 

"Ladies  and  gentlemen,"  lie  said,  "we  have  no  assurance 
of  a  blessing  except  'Ask  and  ye  shall  receive.'     Therefore, 


THE  DEVIL'S  ACRE.  359 

before  we  go  further,  it  is  our  duty,  as  brethren  of  a  com- 
moii  family  in  Christ,  to  ask  the  blessing  of  Almighty  God 
on  this  enterprise." 

There  was  a  subdued  rustle  of  drooping  hats  and  bonnets, 
when  suddenly  a  thin  voice  was  heard  to  say,  "  Mr.  Arch- 
deacon, may  I  inquire  first  who  is  to  ask  the  blessing  ?  " 

"  I  thought  of  doing  so  myself,"  said  the  Archdeacon 
with  a  meek  smile. 

"  In  that  case,  as  a  Unitainan,  I  must  object  to  an  invoca- 
tion in  which  I  do  not  believe." 

There  was  a  half-sujipressed  titter  from  the  wall  at  the 
back,  where  Lord  Robert  Ure  was  standing  with  his  face 
screwed  up  to  his  eyeglass. 

"  Well,  if  the  name  of  our  Lord  is  a  stumbling  block  to 
our  Unitarian  brotiier,  no  doubt  the  prayer  in  this  instance 
would  be  acceptable  without  the  customary  Christian  bene- 
diction." 

"  That's  just  like  you,"  said  a  large  man  near  the  door, 
w^th  whiskers  all  round  his  face.  "You've  been  trimming 
all  your  life,  and  now  you  are  going  to  trim  away  the  name 
of  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ." 

"If  our  Low-Church  brother  thinks  he  can  do  better " 

But  John  Storm  intervened.  He  had  looked  icy  cold, 
though  the  twitching  of  his  lower  lip  showed  that  he  was 
red  hot  within. 

"Ladies  and  gentlemen,"  he  said  in  a  quavering  voice, 
"  I  apologize  for  bringing  you  together.  I  thought  if  we 
were  in  earnest  about  the  union  of  Christendom  we  might 
at  least  unite  in  the  real  contest  with  evil.  But  I  find  it  is  a 
dream  ;  we  have  only  been  trifling  with  ourselves,  and  there 
is  not  one  of  us  who  wants  the  union  of  Christendom,  ex- 
cept on  the  condition  that  his  rod  shall  be  like  Aaron's  rod 
which  swallowed  up  all  the  rest.  It  was  a  mistake,  and  I 
beg  your  pardon." 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  the  Archdeacon,  "  it  icas  a  mistake ;  and 
if  you  had  taken  my  advice  from  the  first,  and  asked  the 
blessing  of  God  through  good  High  Churchmen  alone " 

"  God  doesn't  wait  for  any  asking,"  said  John,  now  flush- 
ing up  to  the  eyes.  "He  gives  freely  to  High  Churchmen, 
Low  Churchmen,  and  No  Churchmen  alike." 


360  THE   CHRISTIAX. 

"  If  that  is  your  opinion,  sir,  you  are  no  better  than  some 
of  your  friends,  and  for  my  part  I  will  never  darken  your 
door  again !  " 

""Darken  is  a  good  word  for  it.  Archdeacon,"  said  John, 
and  with  that  the  company  broke  up. 

Mrs.  Macrae  looked  like  a  thunder-cloud  as  John  bowed 
to  her  on  passing  out,  but  Mrs.  Callender  cried  out  in  a  jubi- 
lant voice,  "  Be  skipper  of  your  ain  ship,  laddie  !  "  and  added 
(being  two  yards  beliind  the  Archdeacon's  broad  back  going- 
down  the  stairs),  "If  some  folks  are  to  be  inheritors  of  the 
kingdom  of  heaven  there'll  be  a  michtj'  crush  at  the  pearly 
gates,  I'm  thinking  I  " 

John  Storm  went  back  to  Soho  with  a  heavy  heart. 
Going  up  Victoria  Street  he  passed  a  crowd  of  ragged  people 
who  wore  ploughing  their  way  through  the  carriages.  Two 
constables  were  taking  a  man  and  woman  to  the  police 
court  in  Rochester  Row.  The  prisoners  were  Sharkey,  the 
keeper  of  the  gambling  house,  and  his  wife  the  baby-farmer. 

But  within  a  week  John  Storm,  in  greater  spirits  than 
ever,  was  writing  to  Glory  again  : 

"  The  Archdeacon  has  deserted  me,  but  no  matter  !  My 
uncle  has  advanced  me  another  thousand  of  my  mother's 
money,  so  the  crusade  is  seZ/-supporting  in  one  sense  at  all 
events.  What  a  fool  I  am  !  Ask  Aunt  Anna  her  opinion 
of  me,  or  say  old  Clialse  or  the  village  natural — but  never 
mind !  Folly  and  wisdom  are  relative  terms,  and  I  don't 
envy  the  world  its  narrow  ideas  of  either.  You  would  be 
amused  to  see  how  the  women  of  the  West  End  are  taking 
up  the  movement — Lady  Robert  Ure  among  the  rest !  They 
have  banded  themselves  into  a  Sisterhood,  and  christened  our 
clergy-house  a '  Settlement.'  One  of  my  Greek  owners  came 
in  the  other  evening  to  see  the  alterations.  His  eyes  glistened 
at  the  change,  and  he  asked  leave  to  bring  a  friend.  I  trust 
you  are  well  and  settling  tilings  comfortalily,  and  that  Miss 
Macquarrie  has  gone.  It  is  raining  through  a  colander  liere, 
but  I  have  no  time  to  think  of  depressing  weather.  Some- 
times when  I  cross  our  great  squares,  where  the  birds  slug 
among  the  yellowing  leaves,  my  mind  goes  off  to.your  sweet 
home  in  tlie  sunshine  ;  and  when  I  drop  into  the  dai-k  alleys 
and  lanes,  where  the  pale  faced  children  play  in  their  pov- 


THE   DEVIL'S  ACRE.  361 

erty  and  rags,  I  think  of  a  day  that  is  coming,  and,  God 
willing,  is  now  so  near,  when  a  ministering  angel  of  tender- 
ness and  strength  will  be  passing  through  them  like  a 
gleam.  But  I  am  more  than  ever  sure  that  you  do  well  to 
avoid  for  the  present  the  pompous  joys  of  life  in  London, 
where  for  one  happy  being  there  are  a  thousand  pretenders 
to  happiness." 

On  the  Sunday  night  following,  Crook  Lane,  outside  the 
clergy-house,  was  almost  blocked  with  noisy  people  of  both 
sexes.  They  were  a  detachment  of  the  '"Skeletons,"  and  the 
talk  among  them  was  of  the  trial  of  the  Sharkeys,  which 
liad  taken  place  the  day  before.  "  They've  'ed  six  menths," 
said  one.  "  And  it's  all  along  o'  niinjee  parsons,"  said  an- 
other ;  and  Charlie  Wilkes,  who  had  a  certain  reputation 
for  humour,  did  a  step-dance  and  sang  some  doggerel  be- 
ginning— 

Father  Storm  is  a  werry  good  man, 

'E  does  you  all  the  'arm  'e  can. 

Through  this  crowd  two  gentlemen  pushed  their  way  to 
the  clergy-house,  which  was  brilliantly  lit  up.  One  of  them 
was  the  Greek  owner,  the  other  was  Lord  Robert  Ure.  En- 
tering a  large  room  on  the  ground  floor,  they  first  came 
upon  John  Storm,  in  cassock  and  biretta,  standing  at  the 
door  and  shaking  hands  with  everybody  who  came  in  and 
went  out.  He  betrayed  no  surprise,  but  greeted  them  re- 
spectfully and  then  passed  them  on.  Every  moment  of  his 
time  was  occupied.  The  room  was  full  of  the  young  girls 
of  the  district,  with  here  and  there  a  Sister  out  of  another 
world  entirely.  Some  were  reading,  some  conversing,  some 
laughing,  some  playing  a  piano,  and  some  singing.  Their 
voices  filled  the  air  like  the  chix'ping  of  birds,  and  their  faces 
were  bright  and  happy.  "  Good-evening,  Father,"  they  said 
on  entering,  and  "  Good-night,  Father,"  as  they  went  away. 

The  two  men  stood  some  minutes  and  looked  round  the 
room.  It  was  observed  that  Lord  Robert  did  not  I'emove 
his  hat.  He  kept  chewing  the  end  of  a  broken  cigarette, 
whereof  the  other  end  hung  down  his  chin.  One  of  the 
Sisters  heard  him  say,  "  It  will  do  with  a  little  alteration,  I 
think."  Then  he  went  off  alone,  and  the  Greek  owner 
stepped  up  to  John  Storm. 
24 


362 


THE   CHRISTIAN. 


It  was  not  at  first  that  Jolin  could  attend  to  him,  and 
when  he  was  able  to  do  so  he  began  to  rattle  on  about  his 
own  affairs.  "  See,"  he  said  -with  a  delighted  smile  and  a 
wave  of  the  arm,  "  see  how  crowded  we  are  !  We'll  have  to 
^think  of  taking  in  the  next  door  soon." 

"  Father  Storm,"  said  the  Greek,  "  I  have  something 
serious  to  say,  thougli  the  official  notification  will  of  course 
reach  you  by  another  channel." 

John's  face  darkened  as  a  ripe  cornfield  does  when  the 
sun  dies  away  from  it. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  tell  you  that  the  trustees,  having  had  a 
favourable  otter  for  this  proj)erty " 

"  Well  ? "     His  great  staring  eyes  had  stopped  the  man. 

" have  decided  to  sell." 

"  Sell  f    Did  you  say  se ?    To  whom  ?    What  ?  " 

"  To  tell  you  the  truth,  to  the  syndicate  of  a  music  hall.'' 

John  staggered  back,  breathing  audibly.    "  Now  if  a  man 

had  to  believe  that Do  you  know  if  I  thought  such  a 

thing  could  happen— — " 

"  I'm  sorry  you  take  the  matter  so  seriously.  Father 
Storm.  It's  true  you've  spent  money  on  the  property,  but, 
believe  me,  the  trustees  will  derive  no  profit " 

"  Profit  ?  Money  ?  Do  you  suppose  I'm  thinking  of 
that,  and  not  of  the  desecration,  the  outrage,  the  horror  ? 
But  who  are  they  ?    Is  that  man — Lord " 

The  Greek  had  nodded  his  head,  and  John  flung  open 
the  door.  "Out  of  this!  Out  of  it,  you  Judas!"  And  al- 
most before  the  Greek  had  crossed  the  threshold  the  door 
was  banged  at  his  back. 

The  incident  had  been  observed,  and  there  was  dead 
silence  in  the  club-room,  but  John  only  cried,  "  Let's  sing 
something,  girls,"  and  when  a  Sister  struck  up  his  favourite 
Nazareth  tliere  was  no  voice  so  loud  as  his. 

But  lie  liad  realized  everything.  "  Gloria  "  was  coming 
back,  and  the  work  of  months  was  overthrown  I 

When  lie  was  going  home  groups  of  the  girls  were  talk- 
ing in  whispers  in  the  hall,  and  Mrs.  Pincher,  who  was  wip- 
ing her  eyes  at  the  door,  said,  "  I  wonder  you  don't  drown 
yourself — I  do  !  " 

At  the  corner  of  the  lane  Mr.  Jupe  was  waiting  for  him 


THE  DEVIL'S  ACRE.  363 

to  beg'  liis  pardon  and  to  ask  his  advice.  What  he  had  said 
of  Mrs.  Jupe  had  turned  out  to  be  true.  The  Sharkeys  had 
"  split "  on  her  and  she  had  been  arrested.  "  It  was  all  in 
the  evenin'  pipers  last  night,''  the  weak  creature  whimpered, 
"  and  to-day  my  manager  told  me  I  'ad  best  look  out  for  an- 
other place.     Oh,  my  poor  Lidjer  I    What  am  I  to  do  ? '' 

"  Do  ?  Cut  her  off  like  a  rotten  bough  ! "  said  John 
scornfully,  and  with  that  he  strode  down  the  street.  The 
human  sea  roared  around  him,  and  he  felt  as  if  he  wanted 
to  fling  himself  into  the  midst  of  it  and  be  swallowed  up. 

On  reaching  Victoria  Square  he  told  Mrs.  Callender  the 
news— flung  it  out  at  her  with  a  sort  of  triumphant  shout. 
His  church  had  been  sold  over  his  head,  and  being  only 
"  Chaplain  to  the  Greek-Turks,"  he  was  to  be  turned  into 
the  streets.  Then  he  laughed  wildly,  and  by  some  devilish 
impulse  began  to  abuse  Glory.  "  The  next  chaplain  is  to  be 
a  girl,"  he  cried,  "one  of  those  creatures  who  throw  kisses 
at  gaping  crowds  and  sweep  curtsies  for  their  dirty  crusts." 

But  all  at  once  he  turned  white  as  a  ghost  and  sat  down 
trembling.  Mrs.  Callender's  face  was  twitching,  and  to  pre- 
vent herself  fi'om  crying  she  burst  into  scorching  satire. 
"  There  !  "  she  said,  sitting  in  her  rocking-chair  and  rocking 
herself  furiously,  "  I  ken'd  weel  what  it  would  come  til ! 
Adversity  mak's  a  man  wise,  they  say,  if  it  doesna  mak'  him 
rich.  But  it's  the  Prime  Minister  I  blame  for  this.  The  auld 
dolt  I  he  must  be  fallen  to  his  dotage.  It's  enough  to  mak' 
a  reasonable  body  go  out  of  her  mind  to  think  of  sic  wise 
asses.  I  told  you  what  to  expect,  but  you  were  always  mis- 
calling me  for  a  suspicious  auld  woman.  Oh,  it's  a  thing 
ye'd  no  suspect ;  but  Jane  Callender  is  only  a  daft  auld  fool, 
ye  see,  and  doesna  ken  what  she's  saying  !  " 

But  at  the  next  moment  she  had  jumped  up  and  flung 
her  arms  about  John's  neck,  and  was  crying  over  him  like 
a  girl.  "  Oh,  my  son !  my  ain  son !  And  is  it  for  me  to 
fling  out  at  ye  ?    Aye,  aye,  it's  a  heartless  world,  laddie ! " 

He  kissed  the  old  woman,  and  then  she  tried  to  coax  him 
to  eat.  "  Come,  come,  a  wee  bittie,  just  a  wee  bittie.  We 
must  eat  our  supper  anyway." 

"  God  seems  dead  and  heaven  a  long  way  off ! "  he  mur- 
mured. 


gg^  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

"  And  a  drap  o'  wliisky  will  do  no  harm — a  wee  drap- 

pie." 

"  There's  only  one  thing  clear— God  sees  I'm  unfit  for  the 
work,  so  he  has  taken  it  away  from  me." 

She  turned  aside  from  the  table,  and  the  supper  was  left 
untouched. 

The  first  post  next  morning  brought  a  letter  from  Glory. 

"  The  Garden  House, 

"  Clement's  iTin,  W.  C. 

"  Forgive  me  !  I  have  returned  to  town  !  I  couldn't 
help  it,  I  couldn't,  I  couldn't !  London  dragged  me  back. 
What  was  I  to  do  after  everything  was  settled  and  the 
aunties  provided  for  ?— assist  in  a  dame's  school  and  wage 
war  with  pothooks  and  hangers  ?  Oh !  I  was  dying  of 
weariness — dying,  dying,  dying  ! 

"  And  then  they  made  me  such  tempting  offei-s.  Not  the 
music  hall— don't  think  that.  I  dare  say  you  were  quite 
right  there.  No,  but  the  theatre,  the  regular  theatre  !  Mr. 
Drake  has  bought  some  broken-down  old  place,  and  is  to 
turn  it  into  a  beautiful  theatre  expressly  for  me.  I  am  to 
play  Juliet.  Only  think — Juliet !— and  in  my  own  theatre  ! 
Already  I  feel  like  a  liberated  slave  who  has  crossed  her 
Red  Sea. 

"  And  don't  think  a  woman's  mourning  is  like  the  silly 
old  laws  which  lasted  but  three  days.  He  is  buried  in  my 
heart,  not  in  the  earth,  and  I  shall  love  him  and  revere  him 
always  !  And  then  didn't  you  tell  me  yourself  it  would  not 
be  right  to  allow  his  death  to  stop  my  life  ? 

"  Write  and  say  you  forgive  me,  John.  Reply  by  return, 
and  make  yourself  your  own  postman — registered.  You'll 
find  me  here  at  Rosa's.  Come,  come,  come  !  I'll  never  for- 
give you  if  you  don't  come  soon — never,  never ! 

"  Glory." 

XII. 

A  FORTNIGHT  had  passed,  and  John  Storm  had  not  yet 
visited  Glory.  Nevertheless,  he  had  heard  of  her  from  day 
to  day  through  the  medium  of  the  newspapers.     Every  morn- 


THE   DEVIL'S  ACRE.  365 

ing  he  had  glanced  down  the  black  columns  for  the  name 
that  stood  out  from  them  as  if  its  letters  had  been  printed  in 
blood.  The  reports  had  been  many  and  mysterious.  First, 
the  brilliant  young  artiste,  who  had  made  such  an  extraordi- 
nary impression  some  months  before,  had  returned  to  Lon- 
don and  would  shortly  resume  the  promising  career  which 
had  been  interrupted  by  illness  and  family  bereavement. 
Next,  the  forthcoming  appearance  would  be  on  the  regular 
stage,  and  in  a  Shakespearian  character,  which  was  always 
understood  to  be  a  crucial  test  of  histrionic  genius.  Then, 
the  revival  of  Romeo  and  Juliet,  which  had  formerly  been 
in  contemplation,  would  probably  give  way  to  the  still  more 
ambitious  project  of  an  entirely  new  production  by  a  well- 
known  Scandinavian  author,  with  a  part  peculiarly  fitted^o 
the  personality  and  talents  of  the  debutante.  Finally,  a 
syndicate  was  about  to  be  formed  for  the  jjurchase  of  some 
old  property,  with  a  view  to  its  reconstruction  as  a  theatre, 
in  the  interests  of  the  new  play  and  the  new  player. 

John  Storm  laughed  bitterly.  He  told  himself  that 
Glory  was  unworthy  of  the  least  of  his  thoughts.  It  was 
his  duty  to  go  on  with  his  work  and  think  of  her  no 
more. 

He  had  received  his  official  notice  to  quit.  The  church 
Avas  to  be  given  up  in  a  month,  the  clergy-house  in  two 
months,  and  he  believed  himself  to  be  immersed  in  prepara- 
tions for  the  rehousing  of  the  club  and  home.  Twenty  young 
mothers  and  their  children  now  lived  in  the  upper  rooms, 
under  obedience  to  the  Sisterhood,  but  Polly's  boy  had  re- 
mained with  Mrs.  Pincher.  From  time  to  time  he  had  seen 
the  little  one  tethered  to  a  chair  by  a  scarf  about  its  waist, 
creeping  by  the  wall  to  the  door,  and  there  gazing  out  on 
the  woi'ld  with  looks  of  intelligence,  and  babbling  to  it 
in  various  inarticulate  noises.  "  Boo-loo  !  Lal-la  !  Mum- 
um ! "  The  little  dark  face  had  the  eyes  of  its  mother,  but 
it  represented  Glory  for  all  that.  John  Storm  loved  to  see 
it.  He  felt  that  he  could  never  part  with  it,  and  that  if  Lord 
Robert  Ure  himself  came  and  asked  for  it  he  would  bundle 
him  out  of  doors. 

But  a  carriage  drew  up  at  Mrs.  Callender's  one  morning, 
and  Lady  Robert  Ure  stepped  out.     Her  pale  and  patient  face 


366 


THE  CHRISTIAN. 


had  the  feeble  and  nervous  smile  of  the  humiliated  and  un- 
loved. 

"Mr.  Storm,"  she  said  in  her  gentle  voice,  "  I  have  come 
on  a  delicate  errand.  I  can  not  delay  any  longer  a  duty  I 
ought  to  have  discharged  before." 

It  was  about  Polly's  baby.  She  had  heard  of  what  had 
happened  at  the  hospital ;  and  the  newspapers  which  had 
followed  her  to  Paris,  with  reports  of  her  wedding,  had 
contained  reports  of  the  girl's  death  also.  Since  her  return 
she  had  inquired  about  the  child,  and  discovered  that  it  had 
been  rescued  by  him  and  was  now  in  careful  keeping. 

"  But  it  is  for  me  to  look  after  it,  Mr.  Storm,  and  I  beg  of 
you  to  give  it  up  to  me.  Something  tells  me  that  God  will 
never  give  me  children  of  my  own,  so  I  shall  be  doing  no 
harm  to  any  one,  and  my  husband  need  never  know  whose 
child  it  is  I  adopt.  I  promise  you  to  be  good  to  it.  It  shall 
never  leave  me.  And  if  it  should  live  to  be  a  man,  and 
grow  to  love  me,  that  will  help  me  to  forget  the  past  and  to 
forgive  myself  for  my  own  share  in  it.  Oh,  it  is  little  I 
can  do  for  the  poor  girl  who  is  gone — for,  after  all,  she  loved 
him  and  I  took  him  from  her.  But  this  is  my  duty,  Mr. 
Storm,  and  I  can  not  sleep  at  night  or  rest  in  the  day  until 
it  is  begun." 

"  I  don't  know  if  it  is  your  duty,  dear  lady,  but  if  you 
wish  for  the  child  it  is  your  right,"  said  John  Storm,  and 
they  got  into  the  carriage  and  drove  to  Soho. 

"  Boo-loo  !  Lal-la  !  Mum-um  ! "  The  child  was  tethered 
to  the  chair  as  usual  and  talking  to  the  world  according  to 
its  wont.  When  it  was  gone  and  the  women  on  the  door- 
steps could  see  no  more  of  the  fine  carriage  of  the  great  lady 
who  had  brought  the  odour  of  perfume  and  the  rustle  of  silk 
into  the  dingy  court,  and  Mrs.  Pincher  had  turned  back  to 
the  house  with  red  eyes  and  her  widow's  cap  awry,  John 
Storm  told  himself  that  everything  was  for  the  best.  The 
last  link  with  Glory  was  broken  !  Thank  God  for  that !  He 
might  go  on  with  his  work  now  and  need  think  of  her  no 
more ! 

That  day  he  called  at  Clement's  Inn. 

The  Garden  House  wa.s  a  pleasant  dwelling,  fronting  on 
two  of  its  sides  to  the  garden  of  the  ancient  Inn  of  Chan- 


THE  DEVIL'S  ACRE.  3G7 

eery,  and  cosily  furnished  with  many  curtains  and  rugs. 
The  Cockney  maid  who  answered  the  door  was  familiar  in  a 
moment,  and  during  the  short  passage  from  the  hall  to  the 
floor  above  she  communicated  many  things.  Her  name  was 
Liza ;  she  had  heard  him  preach  ;  he  had  made  her  cry ; 
"  Miss  Gloria "  had  known  her  former  mistress,  and  Mr. 
Drake  had  got  her  the  present  place. 

There  was  a  sound  of  laughter  from  the  drawing-i'oom. 
It  was  Glory's  voice.  When  the  door  opened  she  was  stand- 
ing in  the  middle  of  the  floor  in  a  black  dress  and  with  a 
pale  face,  but  her  eyes  were  bright  and  she  was  laughing 
merrily.  She  stopped  when  John  Storm  entered  and  looked 
confused  and  ashamed.  Dx*ake,  who  was  lovniging  on  the 
couch,  rose  and  bowed  to  him,  and  Miss  Macquarrie,  who 
was  correcting  long  slips  of  printer's  proofs  at  a  desk  by  the 
window,  came  forward  and  welcomed  him.  Glory  held  his 
hand  with  her  long  handclasp  and  looked  steadfastly  into 
his  eyes.  His  face  twitched  and  her  own  blushed  deeply, 
and  then  she  talked  in  a  nervous  and  jerky  way,  reproach- 
ing him  for  his  neglect  of  her. 

"  I  have  been  busy,"  he  began,  and  then  stopped  with  a 
sense  of  hypocrisy.  "I  mean  worried  and  toi^mented,"  and 
then  stopped  again,  for  Drake  had  di^opped  his  head. 

She  laughed,  though  there  was  nothing  to  laugh  at,  and 
proposed  tea,  rattling  along  in  broken  sentences  that  were 
spoken  with  a  tremulous  trill,  which  had  a  suggestion  of 
tears  behind  it.  "  Shall  I  ring  for  tea,  Rosa  ?  Oh,  you  have 
rung  for  tea  !  Ah,  here  it  comes  ! — Thank  you,  Liza.  Set  it 
here,"  seating  herself.  "  Now  who  says  the  '  girl '  ?  Remem- 
ber ? "  and  then  more  laughter. 

At  that  moment  there  was  another  arrival.  It  was  Lord 
Robert  Ure.  He  kissed  Rosa's  hand,  smiled  on  Glory,  saluted 
Drake  familiarly,  and  then  settled  himself  on  a  low  stool 
by  the  tea-table,  pulled  up  the  knees  of  his  trousers,  relaxed 
the  congested  muscles  of  one  half  of  his  face,  and  let  fall  his 
eyeglass. 

Drake  was  handing  out  the  cups  as  Glory  filled  them. 
He  was  looking  at  her  attentively,  vexed  at  the  change  in 
her  manner  since  John  Storm  entered.  When  he  returned 
to  his  seat  on  the  sofa  he  began  to  twitch  the  ear  of  her  pug. 


368 


THE  CHRISTIAN. 


which  lay  coiled  up  asleep  beside  him,  calling  it  an  ugly- 
little  pestilence,  and  wondering  why  she  carried  it  about 
with  her.  Glory  protested  that  it  was  an  angel  of  a  dog, 
whereupon  he  supposed  it  was  now  dreaming  of  paradise — 
listen  1 — and  then  there  were  audible  snores  in  the  silence, 
and  everybody  laughed,  and  Glory  screamed. 

"  I  declai-e,  on  my  honour,  my  dear,"  said  Drake  with  a 
mischievous  look  at  John,  "  the  creature  is  uglier  than  the 
beast  that  did  the  business  on  the  day  we  eloped." 

"  Eloped  !  "  cried  Rosa  and  Lord  Robert  together. 

"  Why,  did  you  never  hear  that  Glory  eloped  with  me  ?" 

Glory  was  trying  to  drown  his  voice  with  hollow 
laughter. 

"She  was  seven  and  I  was  six  and  a  half,  and  she  had 
proposed  to  me  in  the  orchard  the  day  before  ! " 

"  Anybody  have  more  tea  ?  No  ?  Some  sally-lunn,  per- 
haps ?  "  and  then  more  laughter. 

"  Hold  3'our  tongue,  Glory !  Nobody  wants  your  tea ! 
Let  us  hear  the  story,"  said  Rosa. 

"Why,  yes,  certainly,"  said  Lord  Robert,  and  everybody 
laughed  again. 

"  She  was  all  for  travel  and  triumphal  processions  in 
those  days " 

Glory  stopped  her  ears  and  began  to  sing  : 

Willy,  Willy  Wilkin, 
Kissed  the  maid  a-milkin'! 
Fa,  la  la ! 

"There  were  so  many  things  people  could  do  if  they 
wouldn't  waste  so  much  time  working " 

Willy,  Willy  Wilkin 
Kissed  the  maid 

"  Glory,  if  you  don't  be  quiet  we'll  turn  you  out ! "  and 
Rosa  got  U])  and  flourished  her  proofs. 

"  I  had  brought  my  dog,  and  when  I  called  her  a " 

But  Glory  had  leaped  to  her  feet  and  fled  from  the  room. 
Drake  had  leaped  up  also,  and  now,  putting  his  back  against 
the  door,  he  raised  his  voice  and  went  on  with  his  story. 

"Somebody  saved  us,  though,  and  she  lay  in  his  arms 
and  ki.ssod  him  all  the  way  home  again." 


THE   DEVIL'S  ACRE.  369 

Glory  was  strumming'  on  the  door  and  singing  to  drown 
his  voice.  When  the  story  was  ended  and  she  was  allowed 
to  come  back  she  was  panting  and  gasping  with  laughter, 
but  there  were  tears  in  her  eyes  for  all  that,  and  Lord  Rob- 
ert was  saying,  with  a  sidelong  look  toward  John  Storm, 
"  Really,  this  ought  to  be  a  scene  in  the  new  Sigui'dsen, 
don't  you  know  !  " 

John  had  retired  within  himself  during-  this  nonsense. 
He  had  been  feeling  an  intense  hatred  of  the  two  men,  and 
was  looking  as  gloomy  as  deep  water.  "  All  acting,  sheer 
acting,"  he  thought,  and  then  he  told  himself  that  Glory 
was  only  worthy  of  his  contempt.  What  could  attract  her 
in  the  society  of  such  men  ?  Only  their  wealth,  and  their 
social  station.  Their  intellectual  and  moral  atmosiAere 
must  weary  and  revolt  her. 

Rosa  had  to  go  to  her  newspaper  office,  and  Drake  saw 
her  to  the  door.  John  rose  at  the  same  time,  and  Glory 
said,  "  Going  already  ?"  but  she  did  not  try  to  detain  him. 
She  would  see  him  again  ;  she  had  much  to  say  to  him.  "  I 
suppose  you  were  surprised  to  hear  that  I  had  returned  to 
London  ? "  she  said,  looking  up  at  his  knitted  brows. 

He  did  not  answer  immediately,  and  Lord  Robert,  who 
was  leaning  again.st  the  chimney-piece,  said  in  his  cold 
drawl,  "Your  friend  ought  to  be  happy  that  j^ou  have  re- 
turned to  London,  seems  to  me,  my  dear,  instead  of  wasting 
your  life  in  that  wilderness." 

John  drew  himself  up.  "  It's  not  London  I  object  to," 
he  said  ;  "  that  was  inevitable,  I  dare  say." 

"  What  then  ? " 

"  The  profession  she  has  come  back  to  follow." 

"  Why,  what's  amiss  with  the  profession  ? "  said  Lord 
Robert,  and  Drake,  who  returned  to  the  room  at  the  moment, 
said  :  "  Yes,  what's  amiss  with  it  ?  Some  of  the  best  men  in 
the  world  have  belonged  to  it,  I  think." 

"  Tell  me  the  name  of  one  of  them,  since  the  world  be- 
gan, who  ever  lived  an  active  Christian  life." 

Lord  Robert  made  a  kink  of  laughter,  and,  turning  to 
the  window,  began  to  play  a  tune  with  his  finger  tips  on  the 
glass  of  a  pane.  Drake  struggled  to  keep  a  straight  face, 
and  answered,  "  It  is  not  their  role,  sir." 


370 


THE  CHRISTIAN. 


"  Very  well,  if  that's  too  much  to  ask,  tell  me  how  many 
of  them  have  done  anything  in  real  life,  anything  for  the 
world,  foi-  humanity— anything  whatevei%  I  don't  care  what 

it  is." 

"  You  are  unreasonable,  sir,"  said  Drake,  "  and  such  ob- 
jections could  as  properly  apply  to  the  professions  of  the 
painter  and  the  musician.  These  are  the  children  of  joy. 
Their  first  function  is  to  amuse.  And  surely  amusement 
has  its  place  in  real  life,  as  you  say." 

"  On  the  contrary,"  said  John,  following  his  own  thought, 
for  he  had  not  listened,  "  how  many  of  them  have  lived 
lives  of  reckless  abandoum&t,  self-indulgence,  and  even 
scandalous  license  I " 

"  Those  are  abuses  that  apply  equally  to  other  profes- 
sions, sir.  Ev€n  the  Church  is  not  free  from  them.  But  in 
the  view  of  reasonable  beings  one  clergyman  of  evil  life- 
nay,  one  hundred— would  not  make  the  profession  of  the 
clergy  bad." 

"  A  profession,"  said  John,  "  which  appeals  above  all  to 
the  senses,  and  lives  on  the  emotions,  and  fosters  jealousy 
and  vanity  and  backbiting,  and  develops  duplicity,  and  ex- 
ists on  lies,  and  does  nothing  to  encourage  self-sacrifice  or 
to  help  suffering  humanitj",  is  a  bad  profession  and  a  sinful 
one ! " 

"  If  a  profession  is  sinful,"  said  Drake,  "  in  proportion  as 
it  appeals  to  the  senses,  and  lives  on  the  emotions,  and  de- 
velops duplicity,  then  the  profession  of  the  Church  is  the 
most  sinful  in  the  world,  for  it  offers  the  gi'eatest  tempta- 
tions to  lying,  and  produces  the  worst  hypocrites  and  im- 
postors ! " 

"  That,"  said  John,  with  eyes  flashing  and  passion  vibrat- 
ing in  his  voice — "  that,  sir,  is  the  great  Liar's  everlasting  lie 
— and  you  know  it !  " 

Glory  wa.s  between  them  with  uplifted  hands.  "  Peace, 
peace !  Blessed  is  the  peacemaker  !  But  tea  !  Will  no- 
body take  more  tea  ?  Oh.  dear  !  oh,  dear !  Why  can't  we 
have  tea  over  again  ?" 

"  I  know  what  you  mean,  sir,''  said  Drake.  "You  mean 
that  I  have  brotiglit  Glory  back  to  a  life  of  danger  and 
vanity,  and  sloth  and  sensuality.     Very  well.     I  deny  your 


THE   DEVIL'S  ACRE.  371 

definition.  But  call  it  what  you  will,  I  have  brought  her 
back  to  the  only  life  her  talents  are  fit  for,  and  if  that's 
all " 

"  Would  you  have  done  the  same  for  your  own  sister  ? " 

"  How  dare  you  introduce  my  sister's  name  in  this  con- 
nection ? " 

"  And  how  dare  you  resent  it  ?  What's  good  for  one 
woman  is  good  for  another." 

Glory  was  turning  aside,  and  Drake  was  looking  ashamed. 
"  Of  course — naturally — all  I  meant," he  faltered — "if  a  girl 
has  to  earn  her  living,  whatever  her  talents,  her  genius — 
that  is  one  thing.  But  the  ujiper  classes,  I  mean  the  leisured 
classes " 

"  Damn  the  leisured  classes,  sir  !  "  said  John,  and  in  the 
silence  that  followed  the  men  looked  round,  but  Glory  was 
gone  from  the  room. 

Lord  Robert,  who  had  been  whistling  at  the  window, 
said  to  Drake  in  a  cynical  undertone  :  "  The  man  is  hipped 
and  sore.  He  has  lost  his  challenge,  and  we  ought  to  make 
allowances  for  him,  don't  you  know." 

Drake  tried  to  laugh.  "  I'm  willing  to  make  allowances," 
he  said  lightly  ;  ''  but  when  a  man  talks  to  me  as  if — as  if  I 

meant  to "  but  the  light  tone  broke  down,  and  he  faced 

round  upon  John  and  burst  out  passionately  :  "  What  right 
have  you  to  talk  to  me  like  this  ?  What  is  there  in  my 
character,  in  my  life,  that  justifies  it  ?  What  woman's  hon- 
our have  I  betrayed  ?  What  have  I  done  that  is  unworthy 
of  the  character  of  an  English  gentleman  ?  " 

John  took  a  stride  forward  and  came  face  to  face  and 
eye  to  eye  with  him.  "  What  have  you  done  ?  "  he  said.  "  You 
have  used  a  woman  as  your  decoy  to  win  your  challenge, 
as  you  say,  and  you  have  struck  me  in  the  face  with  the 
hand  of  the  woman  I  love  !  That's  what  you've  done,  sir, 
and  if  it's  worthy  of  the  character  of  an  English  gentleman, 
then  God  help  England  !  " 

Drake  put  his  hand  to  his  head  and  his  flushed  face 
turned  pale.  But  Lord  Robert  Ure  stepped  forward  and 
said  with  a  smile  :  "  Well,  and  if  you've  lost  your  church  so 
much  the  better.  You  are  only  an  outsider  in  the  ecclesi- 
astical stud  anyway.    Who  wants  you  ?    Your  rector  doesn't 


372  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

want  you  ;  your  Bishop  doesn't  want  you.  Nobody  wants 
you,  if  you  ask  me." 

"  I  don't  ask  you,  Lord  Robert,''  said  John.  "  But  there's 
somebody  who  does  want  me  for  all  that.  Shall  I  tell  you 
who  it  is  ?  It's  the  poor  and  helpless  girl  who  has  been 
deceived  by  the  base  and  selfish  man,  and  then  left  to  fight 
the  battle  of  life  alone,  or  to  die  by  suicide  and  go  shudder- 
ing down  to  hell !  That's  who  wants  me,  and,  God  willing, 
I  mean  to  stand  by  her." 

"  Damme,  sir,  if  you  mean  me,  let  me  tell  you  what  you 
are,''  said  Lord  Robert,  screwing  up  his  eyeglass.  "  You  " 
— shaking  his  head  right  and  left — "  you  are  a  man  who 
takes  delicately  nurtured  ladies  out  of  sheltered  homes  and 
sends  them  into  holes  and  hovels  in  seai'ch  of  abandoned 
women  and  their  misbegotten  children  !  Why  " — turning 
to  Drake — "  what  do  you  think  has  happened  ?  My  wife 
has  fallen  under  this  gentleman's  influence — the  poor  sim- 
pleton ! — and  not  one  hour  before  I  left  my  house  she 
brought  home  a  child  which  he  had  given  her  to  adopt. 
Think  of  it ! — out  of  the  shambles  of  Soho,  and  God  knows 
whose  brat  and  bastard  !  " 

The  words  were  hardly  out  of  the  man's  mouth  when 
John  Storm  had  taken  him  by  both  shoulders.  "God 
does  know,"  he  said,  "  and  so  do  I !  Shall  I  tell  you  whose 
child  that  is  ?  Shall  I  ?  It's  yours  ! "  The  man  saw  it 
coming  and  turned  white  as  a  ghost.  "  Yours  !  and  your 
wife  has  taken  up  the  burden  of  your  sin  and  shame,  for 
she's  a  good  woman,  and  you  are  not  fit  to  live  on  the  earth 
she  walks  upon  !  " 

He  left  the  two  men  speechless  and  went  heavily  down 
the  stairs.  Glory  was  waiting  for  him  at  the  door.  Her 
eyes  Avere  glistening  after  recent  tears. 

"You  will  come  no  more?"  she  said.  She  could  read 
him  like  a  book.  "  I  can  see  that  you  intend  to  come  no 
more." 

He  did  not  deny  it,  and  after  a  moment  she  opened  the 
door  and  he  passed  out  with  a  look  of  utter  weariness. 
Then  she  Avent  back  to  her  room  and  flung  herself  on  the 
bed,  face  downward. 

The  men  in  the  drawing-room  were  beginning  to  recover 


THE  DEVIL'S  ACRE.  373 

themselves.  Lord  Robert  was  humming  a  tune,  Drake 
pacing  to  and  fro. 

"  Buying  up  his  church  to  make  a  theatre  for  Glory  Avas 
the  very  refinement  of  cruelty ! "  said  Drake.  "  Good 
heavens  I  what  possessed  me  ?  " 

"  Original  sin,  dear  boj' !  "  said  Lord  Robert,  with  a  curl 
of  the  lij). 

"  Original  ?    A  bad  plagiarism,  you  mean  ! " 

"Very  well.  If  /  helped  you  to  do  it,  shall  I  help 
you  to  give  it  up  ?  Withdraw  the  prospectus  and  return 
the  deposits  on  shares — the  dear  Archdeacon's  among  the 
rest." 

Drake  took  up  his  hat  and  left  the  house.  Lord  Robert 
followed  him  presently.  Then  the  drawing-room  was  empty, 
and  the  hollow  sound  of  sobbing  came  down  to  it  from  the 
bedroom  above. 

Father  Storm  read  prayers  in  church  that  night  with 
a  hard  and  absent  heart.  A  ten'ible  impulse  of  hate  had 
taken  hold  of  him.  He  hated  Drake,  he  hated  Glory,  he 
hated  him.self  most  of  all,  and  felt  as  if  seven  devils  had 
taken  possession  of  him,  and  he  was  a  hypocrite,  and  might 
fall  dead  at  the  altai'. 

"  But  what  a  fate  the  Almighty  has  saved  me  from  !  "  he 
thought.  Glory  w^ould  have  been  a  drag  on  his  work  for 
life.  He  must  forget  her.  She  was  only  worthy  of  his  con- 
tempt. Yet  he  could  not  help  but  remember  how  beautiful 
she  had  looked  in  her  mourning  dress,  with  that  pure  pale 
face  and  its  signs  of  suffering  !  Or  how  charming  she  had 
seemed  to  him  even  in  the  midst  of  all  that  deception  !  Or 
how  she  had  held  him  as  by  a  spell ! 

Going  home  he  came  upon  a  group  of  men  in  tlie  Com't. 
One  of  them  planted  himself  full  in  front  and  said  with  an 
insolent  swagger :  "  Me  and  my  mytes  thinks  there's  too  many 
parsons  abart  'ere.     What  do  you  think,  sir  ? " 

"  I  think  there  are  more  gamblers  and  thieves,  my  lad," 
he  answered,  and  at  the  next  instant  the  man  had  struck 
him  in  the  face.  He  closed  with  the  ruffian,  grappled  him 
by  the  throat,  and  flung  him  on  his  back.    One  moment  he 


374 


THE   CHRISTIAN. 


held  him  there,  writhing  and  gasping,  then  he  said,  "  Get 
up,  and  get  otf,  and  let  me  see  no  more  of  you  !  " 

"  No,  sir,  not  this  time,"  said  a  voice  above  his  back.  The 
crowd  had  melted  away  and  a  policeman  stood  beside  them. 
"  I've  been  waiting  for  this  one  for  weeks.  Father,"  ho  said, 
and  he  marched  the  man  to  jail. 

It  was  Charlie  Wilkes.  At  the  trial  of  Mrs.  Jupe  that 
morning,  Aggie,  being  a  witness,  had  been  required  to  men- 
tion his  name.  It  was  all  in  the  evening  papers,  and  he  had 
been  dismissed  from  his  time-keeping  at  the  foundry. 


XIII. 

A  WEEK  passed.  Breakfast  was  over  at  Victoria  Square, 
and  John  Storm  was  glancing  at  the  pages  of  a  weekly 
paper.  "  Listen  ! "  he  cried,  and  then  read  aloud  in  a  light 
tone  of  mock  bravery  which  broke  down  at  length  into  a 
husky  gurgle : 

" '  The  sympathy  which  has  lately  been  evoked  by  the 
annoimcement  that  a  proprietary  church  in  Soho  has  been 
sold  for  secular  uses,  is  creditable  to  public  sentiment '  " 

"  Think  of  that,  now  !  "  interrupted  Mrs.  Callender. 

'• ' and  no  doubt  the  whole  community  will  agree  to 

hope  tliat  Father  Storm  will  recover  fi'om  the  irritation 
natural  to  his  eviction '  " 

"  Aye,  we  can  all  get  over  another  body's  disappointment, 
laddie." 

"  '  But  there  is  a  danger  that  in  this  instance  the  altruism 
of  the  time  may  develop  a  sentimentality  not  entirely  good 
for  public  morals '  " 

"  When  the  ox  is  down  there  are  lots  of  butchers,  ye  ken  ! " 

'"With  the  uses  to  which  the  fabric  is  to  be  converted, 
it  is  no  pai't  of  our  purpose  to  deal,  further  than  to  warn 
the  public  not  to  lend  an  ear  to  the  all  too  prurient  purity  of 
the  amateur  moralist ;  but  considering  the  character  of  the 
work  now  carried  on  in  Soho,  no  dt)ubt  with  the  best  inten- 
tions  ' " 

"  Aye,  aye,  it's  easy  to  steal  the  goose  and  give  the  giblets 
in  alms." 


THE   DEVIL'S  ACRE.  375 

"' it  behoov^es  us  to  consider  if  the  community  is 

not  to  be  congratulated  on  its  speedy  and  effectual  ending. 
Father  Storm  is  a  young  man  of  some  talents  and  social 
position,  but  without  any  special  experience  or  knowledge 
of  the  world — in  fact  a  weak,  oversanguine,  and  rather  fool- 
ish fanatic ' " 

*'  Oh,  aye,  he's  down  ;  down  with  him  1 " 

'" and  therefore  it  is  monstrous  that  he  should  be 

allowed  to  subvert  the  order  of  social  life  or  disturb  the 
broad  grounds  of  the  reasonable  and  the  practical '  " 

"  Never  mind.  High  winds  only  blaw  on  high  hills, 
laddie!" 

"' As  for  the  "fallen   sister"   whom   he  has   taken 

under  his  special  care,  we  confess  to  a  feeling  that  too  much 
sympathy  has  been  wasted  on  her  already.  Her  feet  take 
hold  of  hell,  her  house  is  the  way  of  the  grave,  going  down 
to  the  chamber  of  death '  " 

Mrs.  Callender  leaped  to  her  feet.  "That's  the  'deacon- 
man  ;  I  ken  the  cloven  hoof  ! " 

John  Storm  had  flung  the  paper  away.  "  What  a  cow- 
ardly world  it  is  !  "  he  said.  "  But  God  wins  in  the  end,  and 
by  God  he  shall !  " 

"  Tut,  man  !  don't  tak'  on  like  that.  You  can't  climb  the 
Alps  on  roller-skates,  you  see  !  But  as  for  the  Archdeacon, 
pooh  !  I'm  no  windy  aboot  your  '  Sisters '  and  '  Settlements ' 
and  sic  like,  but  if  there  had  been  society  papers  in  the 
Lord's  time,  Simon  the  Pharisee  would  have  been  a  namby- 
pamby  critic  compared  to  some  of  them." 

A  moment  afterward  she  was  looking  out  of  the  window 
and  holding  up  both  hands.  "  My  gracious  !  It's  liimsel' ! 
It's  the  Prime  Minister  !  " 

A  gaunt  old  gentleman  with  a  meagre  mustache,  wear- 
ing a  broad-brimmed  hat  and  unfashionable  black  clothes, 
was  stepping  up  to  the  door. 

"  Yes,  it's  my  uncle ! "  said  John,  and  the  old  lady  fled 
out  of  the  room  to  change  her  cap. 

"  I  have  heard  what  has  happened,  John,  so  I  have  come 
to  see  you,"  said  the  Prime  Minister. 

Was  he  thinking  of  the  money  ?  John  felt  uneasy  and 
ashamed. 


o7rt  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

"  I'm  sorry,  my  boy,  very  sorry  ! " 

"  Thank  you,  uncle." 

"But  it  all  comes,  you  see,  of  the  ridiculous  idea  that  we 
are  a  Christian  nation  !  Such  a  thing  couldn't  have  occurred 
at  the  shrine  of  a  pagan  god  !  " 

"  It  was  only  a  proprietary  church,  uncle.  I  was  much 
to  blame." 

"  I  do  not  deny  that  you  have  acted  unwisely,  but  what 
difference  does  that  make,  my  boy  ?  To  sell  a  church  seems 
like  the  climax  of  irreverence ;  but  they  are  doing  as  bad 
every  day.  If  you  want  to  see  what  times  the  Church  has 
fallen  on,  look  at  the  advertisements  in  your  religious  pa- 
pers—your Benefice  and  Church  Patronage  Gazette,  and  so 
forth.  A  tratiic,  John,  a  slave  traffic,  worse  than  anything 
in  Africa,  where  they  sell  bodies,  not  souls !  " 

"It  is  a  crime  which  cries  to  the  avenging  anger  of 
Heaven,"  said  John  ;  "  but  it  is  the  Establishment  that  is  to 
blame,  not  the  Church,  uncle." 

"We  are  a  nation  of  money-lenders,  my  boy,  and  the 
Church  is  the  worst  usurer  of  them  all,  with  its  learned  di- 
vines in  scarlet  hoods,  who  hold  shares  in  music  halls,  and 
its  Fathers  in  God  living  at  ease  and  leasing  out  public- 
houses.  You  have  been  lending  money  on  usury  too,  and 
on  a  bad  security.     What  are  you  going  to  do  now  ? " 

"  Go  on  with  my  work,  uncle,  and  do  two  hours  where  I 
did  one  before." 

"  And  get  yourself  kicked  where  you  got  yourself  kicked 
before ! " 

"Why  not  ?  If  God  pixts  ten  pounds  on  a  man,  he  gives 
him  strength  to  bear  twenty." 

"  John,  John,  I  am  feeling  rather  sore,  and  I  can't  bear 
much  more  of  it.  I'm  growing  old,  and  my  life  is  rather 
lonely  too.  Except  your  fathei-,  you  are  my  only  kinsman 
now,  and  it  seems  as  if  our  old  family  must  die  with  you. 
But  come,  my  boy,  come,  throw  up  all  this  sorry  masquer- 
ade. Isn't  there  a  woman  in  the  world  who  can  help  me  to 
persuade  you  ?  I  don't  care  who  she  is,  or  what,  or  where 
she  comes  from." 

John  had  coloured  to  the  eyes,  and  was  stammering 
something  about  the  true  priest  cut  olt"  from  earthly  mai'- 


THE  DEVIL'S  ACRE.  377 

riage,  therefore  free  to  commit  himself  completely  to  his 
work,  when  Mrs.  Callender  came  back,  spruce  and  smart, 
with  many  smiles  and  curtsies.  The  Prime  Minister  greeted 
her  with  the  same  old-fashioned  courtesy,  and  they  cooed 
away  like  two  old  doves,  until  a  splendid  equipage  dix)ve  up 
to  the  door,  and  the  plain  old  gentleman  drove  away  in  it. 

"  Wasn't  he  nice  with  me  ?  wasn't  he,  now  ? "  the  old 
lady  kept  saying,  and  John  being  silent — '"  Tut !  you  young 
men  are  just  puir  loblollyboys  with  a  leddy  when  the  auld 
ones  come." 

Going  to  Soho  that  day  John  Storm  felt  a  sudden  thrill 
at  seeing  on  the  street  in  front  of  him,  walking  in  the  same 
direction,  an  elderly  figure  in  cassock  and  cord.  It  was  the 
Father  Superior  of  the  Brotherhood.  John  overtook  him 
and  greeted  him. 

"Ah,  I  was  on  my  way  to  see  you,  my  son." 

"  Then  you  have  heard  what  has  happened  ? " 

"Yes,  Satan's  shafts  fly  fast."  Then  taking  John's  arm 
as  they  walked,  "  Earthly  blows  are  but  reminders  of  Him, 
my  son.  like  the  hair  shirt  of  the  monk,  and  this  trouble  of 
yours  is  God's  reminder  of  your  broken  obedience.  What 
did  I  tell  you  when  you  left  us — that  you  would  come  back 
within  a  year  ?  And  you  will !  Leave  the  world,  my 
son.  It  treats  you  badly.  The  human  spirit  reigns  over  it, 
and  even  the  Church  is  a  Christian  society  out  of  the  sphere 
and  guidance  of  the  Divine  Spirit.  Leave  it  and  return  to 
your  unfinished  vows." 

John  shook  his  head  and  took  the  Father  into  the 
clergy-house,  where  the  girls  were  gathering  for  the  even- 
ing. "  How  can  I  leave  the  world,  Father,  when  there's 
work  like  this  to  do  ?  Society  presents  to  a  large  propor- 
tion of  the.se  bright  creatures  the  alternative,  '  Sell  yourself 
or  starve.'  But  God  says,  'Live,  work,  and  love.'  There- 
fore society  is  doomed,  and  that  dead  man's  sepulchre,  the 
Establishment,  is  doomed,  but  the  Church  will  live,  and 
become  the  corner-stone  of  the  new  order,  and  stand  be- 
tween woman  and  the  world,  as  it  stood  of  old  between  the 
poor  and  the  rich." 

The  Father  preached  for  John  that  night,  taking  for  his 
text  "  The  flesh  lusteth  against  the  Spirit,  and  the  Spirit 
25 


378 


THE   CHRISTIAN. 


against  the  flesh."  And  on  parting-  from  liim  at  the  door 
of  the  sacristy  he  said  :  "  Religious  work  can  only  be  good, 
my  son,  if  it  concerns  itself  first  of  all  with  the  salvation  of 
souls.  Now  what  if  it  pleased  God  to  remove  you  from  all 
this — to  call  you  to  a  work  of  intercession — say,  to  the  mis- 
sion field  ? " 

John's  face  turned  pale.  "  There  can  be  no  need  to  fly," 
he  said,  with  a  frightened  look.  "Surely  London  is  a  mis- 
sion field  wide  enough  for  any  man." 

"  Yet  who  knows  ?  Perhaps  for  your  own  souFs  sake, 
lest  vanity  should  take  hold  of  you,  or  the  love  of  fame,  or 
— or  any  of  the  snares  of  Satan  !  But  good-bye,  and  God  be 
with  you  ! " 

When  John  Storm  reached  home  he  found  a  letter 
awaiting  him.     It  was  from  Glory  : 

"  Are  you  dead  and  buried  ?  If  so,  send  me  word,  that  I 
may  compose  your  epitaph.  'Here  lies — Lies  is  good,  for 
though  you  didn't  promise  to  come  back  you  ought  to 
have  done  so ;  therefore  it  comes  to  the  same  thing  in  the 
end.  You  must  not  think  too  ill  of  Mr.  Drake.  I  call  him 
the  milk  of  human  kindness,  and  his  friend  Lord  Robert 
the  oil  thereof — I  mean  the  oil  of  vitriol.  But  his  temper  is 
like  the  Caspian  Sea,  having  neither  ebb  nor  flow,  while 
yours  is  like  the  Bay  of  Biscay-oh,  so  I  can't  expect  you  to 
agree.  As  for  poor  me,  I  may  be  guilty  of  all  the  seven 
deadly  sins,  but  I  can't  see  why  I  should  be  boycotted  on 
that  account.  There  is  something  I  didn't  know  when  you 
were  here,  and  I  want  to  explain  about  it.  Therefore  come 
'right  away'  (Lord  Bob,  Americanized).  Being  slow  to 
anger  and  plenteous  in  mercy,  I  will  forgive  you  if  you 
come  soon.  If  you  don't,  I'll — I'll  go  on  the  bike — feminine 
equivalent  to  the  drink.  To  tell  you  tlie  truth,  I've  done  so 
already,  having  been  careering  round  the  gardens  of  tlie 
Inn  during  the  early  hours  of  morning,  clad  in  Rosa's 
'  bloomers,'  in  which  I  make  a  picture  and  a  sensation  at 
the  same  time,  she  being  several  sizes  larger  round  the  hips, 
and  fearfully  and  wonderfully  made.  If  that  doesn't  fetch 
you  I'll  go  in  for  boxing  next,  and  in  a  pair  of  four-oinice 
gloves  I'll  cut  a  Htrikiug  figure,  I  can  tell  you. 

"  But,  John  Storm,  have  you  cast  me  off  entirely  ?     Do 


THE   DEVIL'S   ACRE.  379 

you  intend  to  abandon  me  ?  Do  you  think  tliere  is  no  sal- 
vation left  for  me  ?  And  are  you  going  to  let  me  sink  in 
all  this  mire  without  stretching  out  a  hand  to  help  me  ? 
Oh,  dear !  oh,  dear !  I  don't  know  what  has  come  over  the 
silly  old  world  since  I  came  back  to  London.  Think  it 
must  be  teething,  judging  by  the  sharpness  of  its  bite,  and 
feel  as  if  I  should  like  to  give  it  a  dose  of  syrup  of  squills." 

As  John  read  the  letter  his  eyelids  quivered  and  his 
moutli  relaxed.  Then  he  glanced  at  it  again,  and  his  face 
clouded. 

''I  can  not  leave  her  entirely  to  the  mercy  of  men  like 
these,"  he  thought. 

This  innocent  daring,  this  babelike  ripping  up  of  serv- 
iceable conventions — God  knows  what  advantage  such 
men  might  take  of  it.  He  must  see  her  once  again,  to 
warn,  to  counsel  her.  It  was  his  duty — he  must  not  shrink 
from  it.  - 

It  had  been  a  day  of  painful  impressions  to  Glory. 
Early  in  the  morning  Lord  Robert  had  called  to  take  her  to 
the  "reading"  of  the  new  play.  It  took  place  in  the  saloon 
of  an  unoccupied  Strand  theatre,  of  which  the  stage  also 
had  been  engaged  for  rehearsal.  The  company  were  gath- 
ered there,  and,  being  more  or  less  experienced  actors  and 
actresses,  they  received  her  with  looks  of  courteous  indul- 
gence, as  one  whose  leading  place  must  be  due  to  other 
things  than  talent.  This  stung  her  ;  she  felt  lier  position  to 
be  a  false  one,  and  was  vexed  that  she  had  permitted  Lord 
Robert  to  call  for  her.  But  her  humiliation  liad  yet  hardly 
begun. 

While  they  stood  waiting  for  the  managei',  who  was 
late,  a  gorgeous  person  with  a  waxed  mustache  and  in  a 
fur-lined  coat,  redolent  of  the  mixed  odour  of  perfume  and 
stale  tobacco,  forced  his  way  up  to  her  and  offered  his  card. 
She  knew  the  man  in  a  moment. 

"I'm  Josephs,"  he  said  in  a  confidential  undertone, 
"  and  if  there's  anything  I  can  do  for  you — acting  manage- 
ment— anything — it  vill  give  me  pleesure." 

Glory  flushed  up  and  said,  "  But  you  don't  seem  to  re- 
member, sir.  that  we  have  met  before." 


380 


THE  CHRISTIAN. 


Tlie  man  smiled  blandly.  "  Ob,  yes.  I've  kept  track  of 
you  ever  since  and  know  all  about  you.  You  hadn't  made 
your  appearance  then,  and  naturally  I  couldn't  do  much. 
But  now—now  if  you  vill  give  me  de  pleesure " 

"Then  an  agent  is  one  who  can  do  nothing  for  you 
when  you  want  help,  but  when  you  don't  want  it ' 

The  man  laughed  to  carry  oft"  his  audacity.  "  Veil,  you 
know  vhat  they  say  of  us— agent  from  agere,  '  to  do,'  and 
we're  always  '  doing.'  Ha,  ha !  But  if  you  are  villing  to 
let  bygones  be  bygones,  I  am,  and  velcome." 

Glory's  face  was  crimson.  "  Will  somebody  go  for  the 
stage  doorkeeper  ? "  she  said,  and  one  of  the  company  went 
out  on  that  errand.  Then,  raising  her  voice  so  that  every- 
body listened,  she  said :  "  Mr.  Josephs,  when  I  was  quite  un- 
known, and  trying  to  get  on,  and  finding  it  very  hard,  as 
we  all  do,  you  played  me  the  cruellest  trick  a  man  ever 
played  on  a  woman.  I  don't  owe  you  any  grudge,  but,  for 
the  sake  of  every  poor  girl  who  is  struggling  to  live  in 
London,  I  am  going  to  turn  you  out  of  the  house." 

"Eh?    Vhat?" 

The  stage  doorkeeper  had  entered.  "  Porter,  do  you  see 
this  gentleman  ?  He  is  never  to  come  into  this  theatre 
again  as  long  as  we  are  here,  and  if  he  fries  to  force  his  way 
in  you  are  to  call  a  policeman  and  have  him  bundled  back 
into  the  street !  " 

"  Daddle  doo,"  and  the  waxed  mustache  over  the  grin- 
ning mouth  seemed  to  cut  the  face  across. 

When  Josephs  had  gone  Glory  could  see  that  the  looks 
of  indulgence  on  the  faces  of  the  company  had  gone  also. 
"She'll  do!"  said  one.  "She's  got  the  stuff  in  her!"  said 
another,  but  Glory  hei'self  was  now  quaking  with  fear,  and 
her  troubles  were  not  yet  ended. 

A  little  stout  gentleman  entered  hurriedly  with  a  roll  of 
papers  in  his  hand.  He  stepped  up  to  Lord  Robert,  apolo- 
gized for  being  late,  and  mopped  his  bald  crown  and  red 
face.     It  was  Sefton. 

"This  is  to  be  our  manager,''  said  Lord  Robei-t,  and  Mr. 
Sefton  bobbed  liis  liead,  winked  with  both  eyes,  and  said, 
"  Charmed,  I'm  sure — charmed  !  " 

Glory  could  have  sunk  into  the  earth  for  shame,  but  in 


THE   DEVIL'S  ACRE.  381 

a  moment  she  had  realized  the  crushing  truth  that  wlien  a 
woman  has  been  insulted  in  the  deepest  place — in  her  hon- 
our— the  best  she  can  do  is  to  say  nothing  about  it. 

The  company  seated  themselves  around  tlie  saloon,  and 
the  reading  began.  First  came  the  list  of  characters,  with 
the  names  of  the  cast.  Glory's  name  and  character  came 
last,  and  her  nerves  throbbed  with  sudden  pain  when  the 
manager  i^ead,  "and  Gloria — Miss  Glory  Quayle." 

There  was  a  confused  murmur,  and  then  the  company 
composed  themselves  to  listen.  It  was  Gloria's  play.  She 
was  rather  scandalous.  After  the  first  act  Glory  thought  it 
was  going  to  be  the  story  of  Nell  Gwynne  in  modern  life  ; 
after  tlie  second,  of  Lady  Hamilton ;  and  after  the  third,  in 
which  the  woman  wrecks  and  ruins  the  first  man  in  the 
country,  she  knew  it  was  only  another  version  of  the 
Harlot's  Progress,  and  must  end  as  that  had  ended. 

The  actors  were  watching  their  own  parts,  and  pointing 
and  punctuating  with  significant  looks  the  places  where  the 
chances  came,  but  Glory  was  overwhelmed  with  confusion. 
How  was  she  to  play  this  evil  woman  ?  The  poison  went 
to  the  bone,  and  to  get  into  the  skin  of  such  a  creature  a 
good  woman  would  have  to  dispossess  herself  of  her  very 
soul.  The  reading  ended,  every  member  of  the  company 
congratulated  some  other  member  on  the  other's  opportuni- 
ties, and  Sefton  came  up  to  Glory  to  ask  if  she  did  not  find 
the  play  strong  and  the  part  magnificent. 

"  Yes,"  she  said ;  "  but  only  a  bad  woman  could  play 
that  part  properly." 

"  You'll  do  it,  my  dear,  you'll  do  it  on  your  own  I "  he 
answered  gaily,  and  she  went  home  perplexed,  depressed, 
beaten  down,  and  ashamed. 

A  newspaper  had  been  left  at  the  door.  It  was  a  second- 
rate  theatrical  journal,  still  damp  from  the  jjress.  The 
handwriting  on  the  wrapper  was  that  of  Josephs,  and  there 
was  a  paragraph  marked  in  blue  pencil.  It  pretended  to  be 
a  record  of  her  short  career,  and  everything  was  in  it — the 
programme  selling,  the  dressing,  the  foreign  clubs — all  the 
refuse  of  her  former  existence,  set  in  a  sinister  light  and 
leaving  the  impression  of  an  abject  up-bringing,  as  of  one 
wlio  had  been  in  the  streets  if  not  on  them. 


3g2  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

Well,  she  had  chosen  her  life  and  must  take  it  at  its  own 
price.  But.  oh,  the  cruelty  of  the  world  to  a  woman,  when 
her  very  success  could  be  her  shame  !  She  felt  that  the 
past  had  grii)ped  her  again— the  pitiless  past— she  could 
never  drag  herself  out  of  the  mire. 

That  night  she  wrote  to  John  Storm,  and  next  morning 
before  Rosa  had  risen— her  duties  kept  her  up  late— she 
heard  a  voice  downstaii-s.  Her  dog  also  heard  it  and  began 
to  bark.  At  the  next  moment  John  was  in  the  room  and 
she  was  laughing  up  into  his  splendid  black  eyes,  for  he 
had  caught  her  down  at  the  sofa  holding  the  pug's  nose  and 
trying  to  listen. 

"  Is  it  you?  It's  so  good  of  you  to  come  early  !  But  this 
dog  "—breaking  into  the  Manx  dialect— "she's  ter'ble,  just 
ter'ble  I "  Then  rising  and  looking  serious  :  "  I  wished  to 
tell  you  that  I  knew  nothing  about  the  church,  nothing 
whatever.  If  I'd  had  the  least  idea  ...  but  they  told  me 
nothing— it  was  very  wrong— nothing.  And  the  first  thing 
I  knew  was  when  I  saw  it  in  all  the  newspaper." 

He  was  leaning  on  the  end  of  the  n)antelpiece.  "  If  they 
deceived  you  like  that,  how  can  you  go  on  with  them  ? " 

"You  mean"  (she  was  leaning  on  the  other  end,  and 
speaking  falteringly),  "you  mean  that  I  ought  to  give  it  all 
up.  But  it's  too  late  for  tliat  now.  It  was  too  late  when  I 
came  to  know.  Besides,  it  would  do  no  good :  you  Avovild 
be  in  the  same  position  still,  and  as  for  me — well,  somebody 
else  would  have  the  theatre,  so  where's  the  use? " 

"  I  was  thinking  of  the  future,  Glory,  not  the  past. 
People  who  deceive  us  once  are  capable  of  doing  so  again." 

"  True — that's  true— only — only " 

She  was  breaking  down,  and  he  turned  his  eyes  away 
from  her,  saying,  "  Well,  it's  all  over  now,  and  there's  no 
help  for  it" 

"No,  there's  no  help  for  it." 

He  tried  to  think  what  he  had  come  to  saj',  but  do  what 
he  would  he  could  not  ren»eniber.  The  moment  he  looked 
at  her  the  thi'ead  of  his  thoughts  was  last,  and  the  fragrance 
of  hor  presence,  so  sweet,  so  clase,  made  him  feel  as  if  he 
wantwl  to  touch  her.  There  was  an  awkward  silence,  and 
then  he  fidgeted  with  his  hat  and  moved. 


THE  DEVIL'S  ACRE.  383 

"  Are  you  going  so  soon  ? " 

"  I'm  busy,  and " 

"  Yes,  you  must  be  busy  now." 

"  And  then  why — why  should  we  prolong  a  painful  in- 
terview, Glory  ? " 

She  shot  up  a  look  under  her  eyebrows.  His  eyes  had 
a  harassed  expression,  but  there  was  a  gleam  in  them  that 
set  her  heart  beating. 

"  Is  it  so  painful ?    Is  it  ?  " 

"  Glory,  I  meant  to  tell  you  I  could  not  come  again." 

"  No  !  You're  not  so  busy  as  all  that,  are  you  ?  Surely  " 
(the  Manx  again,  only  she  seemed  to  be  breathless  now) — 
"  surely  you're  not  so  ter  ble  busy  but  you  can  just  put  a 
sight  on  a  girl  now  and  again  for  all  ?  " 

He  made  a  gesture  with  his  hand.  "  It  disturbs,  it  dis- 
tracts  " 

"  Oh,  is  that  all  ?  Then,"  with  a  forced  laugh,  "  I'll  come 
to  see  you  instead.     Yes,  I  will,  though." 

"  No,  you  mustn't  do  that,  Glory.  It  would  only  tor- 
ment  " 

"  Torment  I  Gough  bless  me  !  Why  torment  ?  "  and  a 
fugitive  flame  shot  up  at  him. 

"  Because  " — he  stammered,  and  she  could  see  that  his 
lips  quivered ;  then  calmly,  very  calmly,  pronouncing  the 
words  slowly,  and  in  a  voice  as  cold  as  ice — "because  I  love 
you ! " 

"  You ! " 

"  Didn't  you  know  that  ? "  His  voice  was  guttural. 
"  Haven't  you  known  it  all  along  ?  Whafs  the  use  of 
pretending  ?  You've  dragged  it  out  of  me.  Was  that  only 
to  show  your  power  over  me  ? " 

"  Oh ! " 

She  had  heard  what  her  heart  wanted  to  hear,  and  not 
for  worlds  would  she  have  missed  hearing  it,  yet  she  was 
afraid,  and  trembling  all  over. 

"We  two  are  of  different  natures.  Glory,  that's  the 
trouble  between  us — now,  and  always  has  been.  We  have 
nothing  in  common,  absolutely  nothing.  You  have  chosen 
your  path  in  life,  and  it  is  not  my  path.  I  have  chosen 
mine,  and  it  is  not  yours.    Your  friends  are  not  my  friends. 


3S4:  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

"We  are  two  different  beings  altogether,  and  yet — and  yet  I 
love  you  !    And  that's  whj'  I  can  not  come  again." 

It  was  sweet,  but  it  was  terrible.  So  different  from  what 
she  had  dreamed  of :  "I  love  you ! — you  are  my  soul ! — I 
can  not  live  without  you ! "  Yet  he  Vv^as  right.  She  had 
slain  his  love  before  it  was  born  to  her — it  was  born  dead. 
In  an  unsteady  voice,  which  had  suddenly  become  husky, 
she  said : 

"No  doubt  you  are  right.  I  naust  leave  you  to  judge. 
Perhaiis  you  have  thought  it  all  out." 

"  Don't  suppose  it  will  be  easy  for  me,  Glory.  I've  suf- 
fered a  good  deal,  and  I  dare  say  I  shall  suffer  more  yet. 
If  so,  I'll  bear  it.     But  for  the  sake  of  my  work " 

"  Ah  ! But  of  course  I  can't  expect Naturally 

you  love  your  work  also " 

"I  do  love  my  Avork  also,  and  therefore  it's  no  use 
trifling.     '  If  thine  eye  offend '  " 

She  w^as  stung.  "Well,  since  there's  no  help  for  it,  I 
suppose  we  must  shake  hands  and  part." 

Not  until  then — not  until  he  had  pronounced  his  doom 
and  she  had  accepted  it  did  he  realize  how  beautiful  she 
seemed  to  him.  He  felt  as  if  something  in  his  throat  wanted 
to  cry  out. 

"It  isn't  what  I  expected,  Glory — what  I  dreamed  of  for 
years." 

"  But  it's  best — it  seems  best." 

"  I  tried  to  make  a  place  for  you,  too,  but  you  wouldn't 
have  it— you  let  it  go ;  you  preferred  this  other  lot  in  life." 

She  remembei'ed  Josephs,  and  Sefton,  and  the  news- 
paper, and  the  part,  and  she  covered  her  face  with  her  hands. 

" How  can  I  go  on,  Glory,  to  the  peril  of  my Its 

dangerous,  even  dangerous." 

"  Yes,  you  are  a  clergyman  and  I  am  an  actress.  You 
must  think  of  that.  People  are  so  ignorant,  so  cruel,  and  I 
dare  say  they  are  talking  already." 

"  Do  you  think  I  should  care  for  that,  Glory  ? "  Her 
hands  came  down  from  her  face.  "Do  you  think  I  should 
care  one  jot  if  all  the  miserable  scandal-mongering  world 
thought " 

"  You'll  think  the  best  of  me,  then  ?  " 


THE   DEVIL'S  ACRE.  385 

"I'll  think  of  both  of  us  as  we  used  to  be,  my  child, 
before  the  world  came  between  us,  before  you " 

She  was  fighting  against  an  impulse  to  fling  herself  into 
his  arms,  but  she  only  said  in  a  soft  voice  :  "  You  are  quite 
right,  quite  justified.  I  have  chosen  my  lot  in  life,  and 
must  make  the  best  of  it." 

"  Well "     He  was  holding  out  his  hand. 

But  nevertheless  she  put  her  hand  behind  her,  thinking : 
"  No ;  if  I  shake  hands  with  him  it  will  be  the  end  of  every- 
thing." 

"Good-bye  !  "  and  with  an  expression  of  utter  despair  he 
left  her. 

She  did  not  cry,  and  when  Rosa  came  down  immediately 
afterward  she  was  smiling  and  her  eyes  were  very  bright. 

"  Was  that  your  friend  Mr.  Storm  ?  Yes  ?  You  must 
beware  of  him,  my  dear.  He  would  stoj)  your  career  and 
think  he  was  doing  God's  service." 

"  Tliere's  no  danger  of  that,  Rosa.  He  only  came  to  say 
he  would  come  no  more,"  and  then  something  flashed  in 
her  eyes  and  died  away,  and  then  flashed  again. 

"Yes,"  thought  Rosa,  "there's  an  extraordinary  attrac- 
tion about  her  that  makes  all  other  women  seem  tame." 
And  then  Rosa  remembered  somebody  else,  and  sighed. 

John  Storm  went  back  to  Soho  by  way  of  Clare  Market, 
and  when  people  saluted  him  in  the  streets  with  "Good- 
morning,  Father,"  he  did  not  answer  because  he  did  not  see 
them.  On  going  to  church  that  night  he  came  upon  a  group 
of  Charlie's  cronies  betting  six  to  one  against  his  getting 
off,  and  a  girl  in  gay  clothes  was  waiting  to  speak  to  him. 
It  was  Aggie.     Slie  had  come  to  plead  for  Charlie. 

"  It's  the  drink,  sir.  'E's  a  good  boy  when  'e's  not  drink- 
ing.     But  1  ask  pardon  for  'im ;   and  if  you  would  only 

not  prosecute " 

John  was  ashamed  of  himself  at  sight  of  the  girl's  fidelity 
to  her  unworthy  lover. 

"  And  you,  my  child — what  about  you  ? " 
"  Oh,  I'm  all  right.     What's  broken  can't  be  mended." 
And  meanwhile  the  church  bells  were  ringing  and  the 
cabs  were  running  to  the  theatres. 


386  THE  CHRISTIAN. 


XIV. 

The  rehearsals  began  early  in  the  morning'  and  usually 
lasted  until  late  in  the  afternoon.  Glory  found  them  weari- 
some, depressing,  and  often  humiliating.  The  body  of  the 
theatre  was  below  the  level  of  the  street,  and  in  the  daytime 
was  little  better  than  a  vast  vault.  If  she  entered  by  the 
front  she  stumbled  against  seats  and  saw  the  figui'es  of  men 
and  women  silhouetted  in  the  distance,  and  heard  the  echo 
of  cavernous  voices.  If  by  the  back,  she  came  upon  the 
prompter's  table  set  midway  across  the  stage,  with  a  twin 
gas-bracket  shooting  up  behind  it  like  a  geyser,  and  an 
open  space  of  some  twenty  feet  by  twenty  in  front  where- 
on the  imaginary  passions  were  to  disport  themselves  at 
play. 

Glory  found  real  ones  among  them,  and  they  were  some- 
times in  hideous  eai'nest.  Jealousy,  envy,  uncharitableness, 
and  all  the  rancour  of  life  where  the  struggle  for  it  is  bitter- 
est, attempts  to  take  advantage  of  her  inexperience,  to  rob 
her  of  the  best  positions  on  the  stage,  to  cut  out  her  lines 
which  "  scored  " — these,  with  the  weary  waits,  the  half  dark- 
ness, the  chill  atmosphere,  the  void  in  front,  with  its  seats 
in  linen  covers,  suggesting  an  audience  of  silent  ghosts,  and 
then  the  sense  of  the  bright,  busy,  bustling,  rattling,  real 
world  above,  sent  her  home  day  after  day  with  a  headache,  a 
heartache,  and  tears  bubbling  out  of  her  eyes. 

And  when  she  had  conquered  those  conditions,  or  settled 
down  to  them,  and  had  made  such  progress  with  her  part  as 
to  throw  away  her  scrip,  the  old  horror  of  the  woman  she 
was  to  make  herself  into,  came  back  as  a  new  terror.  The 
visionary  Gloria  Avas  very  proud  and  vain  and  selfish,  and 
trampled  everything  under  foot  that  she  might  possess  the 
world  and  the  things  of  the  world. 

Meantime  the  real  Gloria  had  a  far  different  part  to  play. 
Every  morning,  with  a  terrible  reality  at  her  heart,  she 
glanced  over  tlie  newspapers  for  news  of  John  Storm.  She 
liad  not  far  to  look.  A  sort  of  grotesque  romance  had  gath- 
ered about  him.  as  of  a  modern  Don  Quixote  tilting  at  wind- 
mills.   His  name  was  the  point  of  a  pun  ;  there  were  car- 


THE   DEVIL'S  ACRE.  387 

toons,  caricatures,  and  all  other  forms  of  the  joke  that  is  not 
a  joke  because  it  is  an  insult. 

Sometimes  she  took  stolen  glances  at  his  work.  On  Sun- 
day morning-  she  walked  through  Soho,  past  the  i^eople  sit- 
ting on  their  doorsteps  reading  the  sporting  intelligence  in 
the  Sunday  papers,  with  their  larks  in  cages  hung  on  nails 
overhead,  until  she  came  to  the  church,  and  heard  the  sing- 
ing inside,  and  saw  chalked  up  on  the  walls  the  legend, 
"  God  bless  the  Farver  !  " 

"  Strange  charge  against  a  clergyman  ! "  It  was  a  low- 
class  paper,  and  the  charge  was  a  badge  of  honour.  A 
young  ruffian  (it  was  Charles  Wilkes)  had  been  brought  up 
on  remand  on  a  charge  of  assaulting  Father  Storm,  and 
being  sentenced  to  a  week's  imprisonment,  notwithstanding 
the  Father's  appeal  and  offer  of  bail,  he  had  accused  the 
clergyman  of  relations  with  liis  sweetheart  (it  was  Agatha 
Jones). 

Glory's  anger  at  the  world's  treatment  of  John  Storm 
deepened  to  a  great  love  of  the  misunderstood  and  down- 
trodden man.  She  saw  an  announcement  of  his  last  service, 
and  determined  to  go  to  it.  The  church  was  crowded,  chiefly 
by  the  poor,  and  the  air  was  heavy  Avith  tlie  smell  of  oranges 
and  beer.  It  was  a  week-day  evening,  and  when  the  choir 
came  in,  followed  by  John  Storm  in  his  black  cassock.  Glory 
could  not  help  a  thrill  of  physical  joy  at  being  near  him. 

The  text  was,  "Woe  unto  you.  Scribes  and  Pharisees, 
hypocrites  !  for  ye  are  like  unto  whited  sepulchres,  whrch 
indeed  appear  beautiful  outside,  but  are  within  full  of  dead 
men's  bones  and  all  uncleanness !"  The  first  half  of  the 
sermon  was  a  denunciation  of  the  morality  of  men.  We 
made  clean  the  outside  of  the  platter,  but  the  so-called  purity 
of  England  was  a  smug  sham  built  upon  rottenness  and  sin  ! 
There  were  men  among  us,  damned  sensualists,  left  un- 
touched by  the  idleness  of  the  public  conscience,  who  did 
not  even  know  where  their  children  were  to  be  found.  Let 
them  go  down  into  the  gutters  of  life  and  look  for  their 
own  faces,  and— God  forgive  them  ! — their  mothers'  faces, 
among  the  outcast  and  the  criminal.  The  second  half  was 
a  defence  of  woman.  The  sins  of  the  world  against  women 
were  the  most  crying  wrongs  of  the  time.     Had  they  ever 


338  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

reflected  on  the  heroism  of  women,  on  their  self-denying", 
unrewarded  lal)our  ?  Oh,  why  was  woman  held  so  cheap  as 
in  this  immoral  London  of  to-day  ?  There  had  been  scarcely 
a  breach  of  the  law  of  Nature  by  women,  and  not  one  that 
men  were  not  chiefly  to  blame  for.  Men  tempted  them  by 
love  of  dress,  of  ease,  of  money,  and  of  fame,  to  forget  their 
proper  vocation  ;  but  every  true  woman  came  right  in  the 
end,  and  preferred  to  the  false  and  fictitious  labour  for 
worldly  glory,  a  mother's  silent  and  unseen  devotion, 
counting  it  no  virtue  at  all.  "  Yes,  women,  mothers,  girls, 
in  your  hands  lies  the  salvation  of  England.  May  you  live 
in  this  prospect,  and  may  God  and  his  ever-blessed  Mother 
be  your  reward  all  through  tliis  weary  life  and  in  glory 
everlasting  I " 

There  was  a  procession  with  banners,  cross,  stars,  green 
and  blue  fleur-de-lis,  but  Glory  saw  none  of  it.  She  was 
kneeling  with  her  head  down  and  heart  choked  with  emo- 
tion. The  next  she  knew  the  service  was  over,  the  congre- 
gation was  gone  ;  only  one  old  woman  in  widow's  weeds  was 
left,  jingling  a  bunch  of  kej'S. 

"Has  the  Father  gone  ? " 

"  No,  ma'am  ;  he  is  still  in  the  sacristy." 

"  Show  me  to  it.'' 

At  the  next  moment,  with  fluttering  throat  and  a  look  of 
mingled  love  and  awe,  she  was  standing  eye  to  eye  with 
John  Storm  in  the  little  bare  chamber  ofl"  the  chm-ch. 

"  Gloi-y,  wliy  do  you  come  here  ? " 

"I  can't  help  it." 

"But  we  said  good-bye  and  parted." 

"  You  did.     I  didn't.     It  was  not  so  easy " 

"  Easy  ?  I  told  you  it  wouldn't  be  easy,  my  child,  and 
it  hasn't  been.  1  said  I  should  sutfer,  and  I  have  suflered. 
But  I've  borne  it— you  see  I've  borne  it.  Don't  ask  me  at 
what  cost." 

"  Oh,  oh,  oil ! "  and  she  covered  her  face. 

"  Yes,  the  devil  tortiyed  me  with  love  first.  I  was  seeing 
you  and  heai-iiig  you  everywhere  and  in  everything.  Glory. 
But  I  got  over  that,  and  then  he  tortured  me  witli  remorse. 
I  had  h'ft  you  to  tlie  mercy  of  the  world.  It  was  my  duty 
to  watch  over  you.     1  did  it,  too." 


THE  DEVIL'S  ACRE.  389 

She  glanced  up  quickly. 

"Ah,  you  never  knew  that,  but  no  matter!  It's  all  over 
now,  and  I'm  a  different  man  entirely.  But  why  do  you 
come  and  torment  me  again  ?  It's  nothing  to  you,  nothing 
at  all.  You  can  shake  it  off  in  a  moment.  That's  your  na- 
ture, Glory ;  you  can't  help  it.  But  have  you  no  pity  ? 
You  find  me  here,  trying  to  help  the  helpless — the  brave 
girls  who  have  the  virtue  to  be  poor,  and  the  strength  to  be 
w^eak,  and  the  courage  to  be  friendless.  Why  can't  you 
leave  me  alone  ?  What  am  I  to  you  ?  Nothing  at  all  I 
You  care  nothing  for  me — nothing  whatever.'' 

She  glanced  up  again,  and  the  look  of  love  in  her  eyes 
was  stronger  now  than  the  look  of  awe.  He  saw  it  and 
could  not  help  knowing  how  strongly  it  worked  upon  his 
feelings. 

"  Go  back  to  your  own  Avorld,  unhappy  girl !  You  love  it 
— you  must ;  you  have  sacrificed  the  best  impulses  of  your 
heart  to  it !  " 

She  was  smiling  now.  It  was  the  old  radiant  smile,  but 
with  a  gleam  of  triumph  in  it  that  he  had  never  seen  before. 
It  worked  like  madness  upon  him,  and  he  tried  to  insult  her 
again. 

*'Go  back  to  your  own  company,  to  the  people  who  j)7az/ 
at  real  life,  and  build  toy  houses,  and  give  themselves  away 
body  and  soul  for  the  clapping  of  haiids  in  a  theatre  !  Go 
back  to  the  lies  and  hypocrisies  of  society,  and  the  brainless 
mashers  who  adorn  it !  They  dance  superbly,  and  are  at 
home  in  drawing-rooms,  and  know  all  about  sporting  mat- 
ters and  theatrical  affairs !  I  know  none  of  these  things, 
and  I  am  kicked  and  cuffed  and  ridiculed  and  liounded 
down  as  an  indecent  man  or  shunned  as  a  moral  leper! 
Why  do  you  come  to  me  ?"  he  cried,  hoarse  and  husky. 

But  she  only  stretched  out  her  hands  to  him  and  said, 
"  Because  I  love  you  ! " 

"  What  are  you  saying  ?  "     He  was  quivering  with  pain. 

"I  love  you,  and  have  always  loved  you,  and  you  love 
me — you  know  you  do — you  love  me  still !  " 

"  Glory  1 " 

" John ! " 

"  For  God's  sake  !     Glory  ! " 


ggQ  THE  CHRISTIAN". 

Witli  a  wild  shout  of  joy  lie  rushed  upon  her.  flung  his 
amis  ahout  her,  and  covered  her  face  and  hands  with  kisses. 
After  a  moment  he  whispered,  "Not  here,  not  here  !'"  and 
she  felt  too  that  the  room  was  suflfocating  them,  and  they 
mu.st  go  out  into  the  open  air,  the  fields,  the  park. 

Somebody  was  knocking  at  the  door.  It  w-as  Mrs.  Pin- 
cher.  A  man  was  waiting  to  speak  to  the  Father.  They 
found  him  in  the  lane.  It  was  Jupe,  the  w^aiter.  His  sim- 
ple face  wore  a  strange  expression  of  joy  and  fear,  as  if  he 
wished  to  smile  and  dare  not. 

"  My  pore  mi.ssis  'a.s  got  off  and  wants  to  come  'ome,  sir, 
and  I  thought  as  you'd  tell  me  what  I  oughter  do.'' 

"Take  her  back  and  forgive  her,  my  man.  that's  the 
Christian  course." 

His  love  was  now  boundless  ;  his  large  charity  embraced 
everything,  and  going  off  he  saluted  everybody.  "  Good- 
evening.  Mrs.  Pincher. — Good-night.  Lydia." 

"  Well,  "e  is  a  Father,  too,  and  no  mistake ! "  somebody 
was  saying  behind  him  as  he  went  away  with  Glory. 

The  moon  was  at  the  full,  and  while  they  were  passing 
through  the  streets  it  struggled  with  the  gas  from  the  shop 
windows  as  the  flame  of  a  fire  struggles  with  the  sunshine, 
but  when  they  passed  under  the  trees  it  shone  out  in  its 
wliite  splendour  like  a  bride.  The  immeasurable  vault  above 
was  silvered  with  stars,  too.  through  depth  on  depth  of  space, 
and  all  the  glorious  earth  and  heaven  seemed  to  smile  the 
smile  of  love.  A  strong  south  breeze  was  blowing,  and  as  it 
shook  the  trees  of  the  park,  that  blessed  patch  of  Nature  in 
the  niid.st  of  the  toiling  city  seemed  to  sing  the  song  of  love  ! 
Their  hands  found  each  other  and  they  walked  along 
almost  in  silence,  afraid  to  break  the  spell  of  their  dream 
lest  thoy  should  awake  and  find  it  gone.  It  seemed  won- 
derful to  him  that  thej'  were  together,  and  he  could  hardly 
believe  it  was  reality,  though  the  touch  of  her  hand  filled  him 
with  a  strange  physical  exultation  which  he  had  never  felt 
before.  He  .seemed  to  be  walking  on  the  clouds,  and  she  too 
was  swaying  by  his  side  as  if  her  blood  was  dancing.  Some- 
times she  dried  her  glistening  eyes,  and  once  she  stopi)ed 
and  swung  in  front  of  him  and  looked  long  at  him  and  then 
raised  her  face  to  his  and  kissed  him. 


THE   DEVIL'S  ACRE.  391 

"  Whether  you  like  it  or  not  your  life  is  bound  up  with 
mine  for  ever  and  ever  !  "  she  whispered. 

"  It  had  to  be,"  he  answered.  "  I  know  it  now.  I  can  no 
longer  deceive  mj'self." 

"  And  we  shall  be  happy  ?  In  spite  of  all  you  said  we 
shall  be  very  happy,  eh  ? " 

"Yes,  that  will  be  quite  forgotten,  Glory." 

"  And  forgiven,"  she  said,  and  then  between  a  sigh  and 
a  blush  she  asked  him  to  kiss  her  again. 

"  My  love  ! " 

"  My  soul ! " 

The  wind  swept  the  hood  of  her  cape  about  her  head  and 
he  could  smell  the  fragrance  of  her  hair. 

He  tried  to  tliink  what  he  had  done  to  deserve  such  hap- 
piness, but  all  the  suffering  he  had  gone  through  seemed  as 
nothing  compared  to  a  joy  like  this.  The  great  clock  of 
Westminster  swung  its  hollow  sounds  into  the  air,  which  went 
riding  by  on  the  wind  like  the  notes  of  an  organ,  now  full 
and  now  as  soft  as  a  baby's  whisper.  They  could  hear  the 
far-off  rumble  of  the  vast  city  which  fringed  their  blessed 
island  like  a  mighty  sea,  and  through  the  pulse  of  their 
clasped  hands  it  seemed  as  if  they  felt  the  pulse  of  the 
world.  An  angel  had  come  down  and  breathed  on  the  face 
of  the  waters,  and  it  was  God's  world,  after  all. 

He  took  her  home,  and  they  parted  at  the  door.  "  Don't 
come  in  to-night,"  she  whispered.  She  wished  to  be  alone, 
that  she  might  think  it  all  out  and  go  over  it  again,  every 
word,  every  look.  There  was  a  lingering  hand-clasp  and 
then  she  was  gone. 

He  returned  through  the  park  and  tried  to  step  over  the 
very  places  where  her  feet  had  trod.  On  reaching  Bucking- 
ham Gate  he  turned  back  and  walked  round  the  park,  and 
again  round  it,  and  yet  again.  The  bells  tolled  out  the 
hours,  the  cabs  went  westward  with  ladies  in  evening  wraps 
going  home  from  theatres,  the  tide  of  traffic  ebbed  farther 
and  farther  and  died  down,  but  still  he  walked  and  the  wind 
sang  to  him. 

"  God  can  not  blame  us,"  he  thought.  "  We  were  made 
to  love  each  other."  He  uncovered  his  head  to  let  the  wind 
comb  through  his  hair,  and  he  was  happy,  happy,  happy  I 


392  THE  CHRISTIAX. 

Sometimes  lie  shut  liis  eyes,  and  tlien  it  was  hard  to  believe 
that  she  was  not  walking  by  his  side,  a  fragrant  presence  in 
the  moonlight,  going  step  by  step  with  him. 

When  the  day  was  near  the  Avind  had  gone,  the  little 
world  of  wood  was  silent,  and  his  footsteps  crunched  on  the 
gravel.  Then  a  yellow  gleam  came  in  the  sky  to  the  east, 
and  a  chill  gust  swept  up  as  a  scout  before  the  dawn,  the 
trees  began  to  shiver,  the  surface  of  the  lake  to  creep,  the 
birds  to  call,  and  the  world  to  stretch  itself  and  yawn. 

Peace  in  her  chamber,  wheresoe'er 
It  be — a  holy  place. 

As  he  went  home  by  Birdcage  Walk  the  park  was  still 
heavy  with  sleep,  and  its  homeless  wanderers  had  not  yet 
risen  from  their  couches  on  the  seats.  A  pale  mist  was  lying 
over  London,  but  the  towers  of  the  Abbey  stood  clear  above 
it,  and  pigeons  were  wheeling  around  them  like  sea-fowl 
about  rocks  in  the  sea.  What  a  night  it  had  been !  A 
night  of  dreams,  of  love,  of  rapture  ! 

The  streets  were  empty  and  very  quiet— only  the  slow 
rattle  of  the  dust-cart  and  the  measured  step  of  policemen 
changing  beats.  Long  blue  vistas  and  a  cemetery  silence 
as  of  a  world  under  the  gi>eat  hand  of  the  gentle  brother  of 
Death,  and  then  the  clang  of  Big  Ben  striking  six. 

A  letter  was  waiting  for  John  in  the  breathless  hall.  It 
was  from  the  Bishop  of  London  :  "  Come  and  see  me  at  St. 
James's  Square." 


XV. 

Suddenly  there  sprang  out  to  Glory  the  charm  and  fas- 
cination of  the  life  she  was  putting  away.  Trying  to  be 
true  to  her  altered  relations  with  John  Storm,  she  did  not 
go  to  rehearsal  the  next  morning,  but  not  yet  having  the 
courage  of  her  new  position,  she  did  not  toll  Kosa  her  true 
reason  for  staying  away.  The  part  was  exhausting— it  tried 
her  very  much  ;  a  little  break  would  do  no  harm.  Rosa 
wr()t(>  to  apologize  for  her  on  the  score  of  health,  and  thus 
the  lirst  clouil  of  dissimulation  rose  up  between  them. 


THE  DEVIL'S  ACRE.  393 

Two  days  passed,  and  then  a  letter  came  from  the  man- 
ager :  "  Trust  you  are  rested  and  will  soon  be  back.  The 
prompter  read  your  lines,  but  everything  has  gone  to  pieces. 
Slack,  slovenly,  spiritless,  stupid,  nobody  acting,  and  nobody 
awake,  it  seems  to  me.  'All  right  at  night,  governor,'  and 
the  usual  nonsense.  Shows  how  much  we  want  you.  Bi-.t 
envious  people  are  whispering  that  you  are  afraid  of  the 
part.  The  blockheads  !  If  you  succeed  this  time  you'll  be 
made  for  life,  my  dear.  And  you  will  succeed !  Yours 
merrily,"  etc. 

With  this  were  three  letters  addressed  to  the  theatre.  One 
of  them  was  from  a  press-cutting  agency  asking  to  be  al- 
lowed to  supply  all  newspaper  articles  I'elating  to  herself, 
and  inclosing  a  pai'agraph  as  a  specimen  :  "  A  little  bird 
whispers  that  'Gloria,'  as  'Gloria,'  is  to  be  a  startling  sur- 
prise.    Those  who  have  seen  her  rehearse But  mum's 

the  word — an'  we  could  an'  we  would,"  etc.  Another  of  the 
letters  was  from  the  art  editor  of  an  illustrated  weekly  ask- 
ing for  a  sitting  to  their  photographer  for  a  full-page  jjicture ; 
and  the  third  inclosed  the  card  of  an  interviewer  on  an 
evening  paper.  Only  three  days  ago  Glory  would  have 
counted  all  this  as  nothing,  yet  now  she  could  not  help  but 
feel  a  thrilling,  joyous  excitement. 

Drake  called  after  the  absence  of  a  fortnight.  He  had 
come  to  speak  of  his  last  visit.  His  face  was  pale  and  seri- 
ous, not  fresh  and  radiant  as  usual,  his  voice  was  shaking 
and  his  manner  nervous.  Glory  had  never  seen  him  ex- 
hibit so  much  emotion,  and  Rosa  looked  on  in  dumb  aston- 
ishinent. 

"I  was  to  blame,"  he  said,  "and  I  have  come  to  say 
so.  It  was  a  cowardly  thing  to  turn  the  man  out  of  his 
church,   and   it  was   worse  than   cowardly  to   use  you  in 

doing  it.     Everything  is  fair,  they  say,  in "     But  he 

flushed  up  like  a  girl  and  stopped,  and  then  faltered  :  "  Any- 
how, I'm  sorry — very  sorry  ;  and  if  there  is  anything  I 
can  do " 

Glory  tried  to  answer  him,  but  her  heart  was  beating  vio- 
lently, and  she  could  not  speak. 

"  In  fact,  I've  tried  to  make  amends  already.  Lord  Robert 
has  a  living  vacant  in  Westminster,  and  I've  asked  him  to 
26 


gg^  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

hand  it  over  to  the  Bishop,  with  the  request  that  Father 
Storm "' 

'•  But  will  he  ?  " 

"  I've  told  him  he  must.  It's  the  least  we  can  do  if  we  are 
to  have  any  respect  for  ourselves.  And  anyhow.  I'm  ahout 
tired  of  this  anti-Storm  uproar.  It  may  be  all  very  well  fof 
men  like  me  to  object  to  the  man— I  deny  his  authorities, 
and  think  him  a  man  out  of  his  century  and  country— but 
for  these  people  with  initials,  who  write  in  the  religious 
papers,  to  rail  at  him,  these  shepherds  who  live  on  five  thou- 
sand a  year  and  pretend  to  follow  One  who  hadn't  a  home 
or  a  second  coat,  and  whose  friends  were  harlots  and  sin- 
nei-s,  though  he  was  no  sinner  himself— it's  infamous,  it's 
atrocious,  it  raises  my  gorge  against  their  dead  creeds  and 
paralytic  churches.  Whatever  his  faults,  he  is  built  on  a 
large  plan,  he  has  the  Christ  idea,  and  he  is  a  man  and  a 
gentleman,  and  I'm  ashamed  that  I  took  advantage  of  him. 
That's  all  over  now,  and  there's  no  help  for  it;  but  if  I 
might  hope  that  you  will  forgive— and  forget " 

"  Yes,"  said  Glory  in  a  low  voice,  and  then  there  was 
silence,  and  when  she  lifted  her  head  Drake  was  gone  and 
Rosa  was  wiping  her  eyes. 

"  It  was  all  for  love  of  you,  Glory.  A  woman  can't  hate 
a  man  when  he  does  wrong  for  love  of  herself." 

John  Storm  came  in  later  the  same  day,  when  Rosa  had 
gone  out,  and  Glory  was  alone.  He  was  a  different  man 
entirely.  His  face  looked  round  and  his  dark  eyes  sparkled. 
The  clouds  of  his  soul  seemed  to  have  drifted  away,  and  he 
was  boiling  over  Avith  enthusiasm.  He  laughed  constantly, 
and  there  was  something  almost  depressing  in  the  lumber- 
ing attempts  at  himiour  of  the  serious  man. 

"What  do  you  think  has  happened  ?  The  Bishop  sent 
for  me  and  olt'ered  me  a  living  in  Westminster.  It  turns 
out  to  being  the  gift  of  Lord  Robert  Ure  ;  but  no  thanks 
to  him  for  it.  Lady  Robex-t  was  at  the  bottom  of  cverj'- 
thing.  She  had  called  on  the  Bishop.  He  remembered  me 
at  the  Brotherhood,  and  told  me  all  about  it.  St.  Jude's, 
Brown's  Square,  on  the  edge  of  the  worst  quarter  in  Chris- 
tendom !  It  seems  the  Archdeacon  expected  it  for  Golight- 
ly,  his  son-in-law.    The  Reverend  Joshua  called  on  mo  this 


THE   DEVIL'S   ACRE,  895 

morning'  and  tried  to  bully  ine,  but  I  soon  bundled  liini  off 
to  Botany  Bay.  Said  the  living  had  been  promised  to  him 
— a  lie,  of  course.  I  soon  found  that  out.  A  lie  is  well 
named,  you  know — it  hasn't  a  leg  to  stand  upon.  Ha, 
ha,  ha !  " 

Nothing  would  serve  but  that  they  should  go  to  look  at 
the  scene  of  their  future  life,  and  with  Don — he  had  bi-ought 
his  dog ;  it  had  to  be  held  back  from  the  pug  under  the 
table — they  set  off  immediately.  It  was  Saturday  night, 
and  as  they  dipped  down  into  the  slums  that  lie  under  the 
shadow  of  the  Abbey,  Old  Pye  Street,  Peter's  Street,  and 
Duck  Lane  were  afiare  wuth  the  coarse  lights  of  open  naph- 
tha lamps,  and  all  but  impassable  with  costers'  barrows. 
There  were  the  husky  voices  of  the  street  hawkers,  the 
hoarse  laughter,  the  quarrelling,  the  oaths,  the  rasping 
shouts  of  the  butcher  selling  chunks  of  dark  joints  by  auc- 
tion, the  screeches  of  the  roast-potato  man,  and  the  smell 
of  stale  vegetables  and  fried  fish.  "  Jow,  'ow  nmch  a  pound 
for  yer  turmaters  ?  "  "  Three  pence  ;  I  gave  mor'n  that  for 
'em  myself."     "  Garn  ! "     "  S'elp  me.  Gawd,  I  did.  mum  !  " 

"Isn't  it  a  glorious  scene  ? "'  said  John  ;  and  Glory,  who 
felt  chilled  and  sickened,  recalled  herself  from  some  dream 
of  different  things  altogether  and  said.  "  Isn't  it  ?  " 

"  Sanctuary,  too  !  What  human  cats  we  are  !  The  poor 
sinners  cling  to  the  place  still  I '' 

He  took  her  into  the  allej^s  and  courts  that  score  and 
wrinkle  the  map  of  Westminster  like  an  old  man's  face,  and 
showed  her  the  "  model  "  lodging-houses  and  the  gaudily 
decorated  hells  where  young  girls  and  soldiers  danced  and 
drank. 

''  What's  the  use  of  saying  to  these  people,  '  Don't  drink  ; 
don't  steal '  ?  They'll  answer,  '  If  you  lived  in  these  slums 
you  would  drink  too.'  But  we'll  show  them  that  we  can 
live  here  and  do  neither — that  will  be  the  true  preaching." 

And  then  he  pictured  a  life  of  absolute  self-sacrifice, 
which  she  was  to  share  with  him.  "  You'll  manage  all 
money  matters.  Glory.  You  can't  think  how  I'm  swindled. 
And  then  I'm  such  a  donkey  as  far  as  money  goes— that's 
not  far  with  me,  you  know.  Ha,  ha,  ha  !  Who's  to  find  it  ? 
Ah,  God  pays  his  own  debts.     He'll  see  to  that." 


396 


THE  CHRISTIAN". 


They  were  to  live  under  the  churcli  itself  ;  to  give  bread 
to  the  huno-ry  and  clothes  to  the  naked  ;  to  set  up  their  Set- 
tlement in  the  gaming-house  of  the  Sharkeys,  now  deserted 
and  sliut  up ;  to  take  in  the  undeserving  poor — the  people 
who  had  nothing  to  say  for  themselves,  precisely  those  ;  and 
tlius  they  were  to  show  that  they  belonged  neither  to  the 
publicans  and  sinners  nor  to  the  Scribes  and  Pharisees. 

'•  Only  let  us  get  rid  of  self.  Only  let  us  show  that  self- 
interest  never  enters  our  head  in  one  single  thing  we  do " 

and  meantime  Glory,  who  had  turned  her  head  aside  with  a 
lump  in  her  throat,  heard  some  one  behind  them  saying : 

"  Lawd,  Jow,  that's  the  curick  and  his  dorg — 'im  as 
got  pore  Sharkey  took  !    See — 'im  with  the  laidy  ? " 

"  S'elp  me,  so  it  is  !  Another  good  man  gorn  to  'is  gruel, 
and  all  'long  of  a  bloomin'  dorg." 

They  walked  round  by  the  church.  John  was  talking 
rapturously  at  every  step,  and  Glory  was  dragging  after 
him  like  a  criminal  going  to  the  pillory.  At  last  they  came 
out  by  Great  Smith  Street,  and  he  cried :  "  See,  there's  the 
house  of  God  under  its  spider's  web  of  scaffolding,  and 
here's  the  Broad  Sanctuary — bi'oad  enough  in  all  conscience  ! 
Look  ! " 

A  crowd  of  girls  and  men  were  troojjing  out  of  a  place 
of  entertainment  opposite,  and  there  were  screams  and 
curses.  "  Look  at  'im  !  "  cried  a  woman's  voice.  '"  There  'e 
is,  the  swine !  And  'e  was  the  ruin  of  me ;  and  now  'e's 
'listed  for  a  soldier  and  going  off  with  another  woman  !  " 

"You're  bleedin'  drunk,  that's  what  you  are!''  said  a 
man's  voice,  '"and  if  you  down't  take  kear  I'll  send  ye  'ome 
on  a  dawer  I " 

"  Strike  me,  Avill  ye,  ye  dog  ?    Do  it  I     I  dare  you  ! " 

"She  ain't  worth  it,  soldier — come  along,"  said  another 
female  voice,  whereupon  the  first  broke  into  a  hurricane  of 
oaths  :  and  a  little  clergyman  going  by  at  the  moment — it 
was  the  Rev.  J.  Golightly— said :  "Dear,  dear!  Are  there 
no  policemen  about  i "  and  so  passed  on,  with  his  tall  wife 
tucked  under  his  arm. 

John  Storm  pressed  through  the  crowd  and  came  between 
tlie  two  who  were  quarrelling.  By  the  light  of  the  lamp  he 
could  see  them.    The  num  was  Cliarlie  Wilkes,  in  the  uui- 


THE  DEVIL'S  ACRE.  397 

form  of  a  soldier ;  the  woman,  with  the  paint  ruiining-  on 
her  face,  her  fringe  disordered,  and  lier  back  liair  torn  down, 
was  Ag-gie  Jones. 

"We  down't  want  no  religion  'ere,"  said  Charlie, 
sneering. 

"  You'll  get  some,  though,  if  you're  not  ojGP  quick  !  "  said 
John.  The  man  looked  round  for  the  dog  and  a  moment 
afterward  he  had  disappeared. 

Glory  came  up  behind.  "  O  Aggie,  woman,  is  it  you  ? " 
she  said,  and  then  the  girl  began  to  cry  in  a  drunken  sob. 

"  Girls  is  cruel  put  upon,  mum,"  said  one  of  the  women  ; 
and  another  cried,  "  Nix,  the  slops  !  "  and  a  policeman  came 
pushing  his  way  and  saying:  "Now,  then,  move  on  !  We 
ain't  going  to  stand  'ere  all  night." 

"  Call  a  cab.  officer,"  said  John. 

"  Yes.  sii' — certainly.  Father.     Four-wheel-er  !  " 

"  Where  do  you  live,  Aggie  ?  "  said  Glory  ;  but  the  girl, 
now  sobbing  drunk,  was  too  far  gone  to  follow  her. 

"  She  lives  in  Bi-own's  Square,  sir,"  said  the  woman  who 
had  sj)oken  before,  and  when  the  cab  came  up  she  was  asked 
to  get  in  with  the  other  three. 

It  w^as  a  tenement  house,  fronting  to  one  facade  of  St. 
Jude's,  and  Aggie's  room  was  on  the  second  story.  She 
was  helpless,  and  Jolm  carried  her  up  the  stairs.  The  place 
was  in  hideous  disorder,  with  clothing  lying  about  on  chairs, 
underclothing  scattered  on  the  floor,  the  fli'e  out,  many  ciga- 
rette ends  in  the  fender,  a  candle  stuck  in  a  beer  bottle,  and 
a  bunch  of  withered  roses  on  the  table. 

As  John  laid  the  girl  on  the  bed  she  muttered,  "Lemme 
alone !  "  and  when  he  asked  what  was  to  happen  to  her  when 
she  grew  old  if  she  behaved  like  this  when  young,  she 
mumbled  :  "  Don't  want  to  be  old.  Who's  goin'  to  lilce  me 
then,  d'ye  think  ? " 

Half  an  hour  afterward  Glory  and  John  were  passing 
through  the  gates  into  Clement's  Inn,  with  its  moonlight 
and  silence,  its  odour  of  moistened  grass,  its  glimpse  of  the 
stars,  and  the  red  and  white  blinds  of  its  windows  lit  up 
round  about.  John  was  still  talking  rapturously.  He  was 
now  picturing  the  part  which  Glory  was  to  play  in  the  life 
they  were  to  live  together.     She  was  to  help  and  protect 


398 


THE  CHRISTIAN. 


their  younger  sisters,  the  child-women,  the  girls  in  peril,  to 
enlist'  their  loyalty  and  filial  tenderness  for  the  hour  of 
tenii)tation. 

'•Won't  it  be  glorious  ?  To  live  the  life,  the  real  life  of 
warfare  with  the  world's  wickedness  and  woe  !  Won't  it  be 
magnificent  ?  You'll  do  it  too  !  You'll  go  down  into  those 
slums  and  sloughs  which  I've  shown  you  to-night— they  are 
the  cradle  of  shame  and  sin,  Glory,  and  this  wicked  London 
rocks  it !— you'll  go  down  into  them  like  a  ministering  angel 
to  raise  the  fallen  and  heal  the  wounded !  You'll  live  in 
them,  revel  in  them,  rejoice  in  them,  thej-'ll  be  your  battle- 
field. Isn't  that  better,  far  better,  a  thousand  times  better, 
than  playing  at  life,  and  all  its  fashions  and  follies  and 
frivolities  ? " 

Glory  struggled  to  acquiesce,  and  from  time  to  time  in  a 
trembling  voice  she  said  "Yes,"  and  "Oh,  yes,"  until  they 
came  to  the  door  of  the  Garden  House,  and  tlien  a  strange 
thing  happened.  Somebody  was  singing  in  the  drawing- 
room  to  the  music  of  the  piano.  It  was  Drake.  The  win- 
dow was  open  and  his  voice  floated  over  the  moonlit  gardens  : 

Du  liebes  Kind,  komm'  geh  mit  inir! 
Gar  schone  Spielc  spiel'  ich  mit  dir. 

Suddenly  it  seemed  to  Glory  that  two  women  sprang 
into  life  in  her — one  who  loved  John  Storm  and  wished 
to  live  and  work  beside  him,  the  other  who  loved  the  world 
and  felt  that  she  could  never  give  it  up.  And  these  two 
women  were  fighting  for  her  heart,  which  should  have  it 
and  hold  it  and  possess  it  forever. 

She  looked  up  at  John,  and  he  was  smiling  triumphantly. 
"  Are  you  happy  ? "  she  asked.  "  ■•   • 

"  Happy  !  I  know  a  hundred  men  who  ai-e  a  hundred 
times  as  rich  a.s  I,  but  not  one  who  is  a  hundredth  part  as 
liai)py  !  " 

"  Darl ing  ! "  she  whispered,  lK)lding  back  her  tears.  Then 
looking  away  from  him  she  said,  "And  do  you  really  think 
I'm  good  enough  for  ii  life  of  such  devotion  and  self- 
sacrilice  ?" 

"  GockI  enough  !  "  he  cried,  and  for  a  moment  his  merry 
laughter  drowned  the  singing  overhead. 


THE  DEVIL'S  ACRE. 

•'  But  will  the  world  think  so  ? " 

"  Assiu'edly.     But  who  cares  what  the  world  thinks  ? " 

"  We  do,  dear — we  must ! '' 

And  tlien,  while  the  song  went  on,  she  began  to  depreci- 
ate herself  in  a  low  voice  and  with  a  creeping  sense  of  hy- 
pocrisy— to  talk  of  her  former  life  in  London  as  a  danger,  of 
the  tobacco-shop,  the  foreign  clubs,  the  music  hall,  and  all 
the  mire  and  slime  with  which  she  had  been  besmirched. 
"  Everything  is  known  now,  dear.  Have  you  never  thought 
of  this  ?     It  is  your  duty  to  think  of  it." 

But  he  only  laughed  again  with  a  joyous  voice.  "  What's 
the  odds  ? "  he  said.  "  The  world  is  made  up  for  the  most 
part  of  low,  selflsh,  sensual  beings,  incapable  of  belief  in 
noble  aims.  Every  innovator  in  such  a  world  exposes  him- 
self to  the  risk  of  being  slandered  or  ridiculed,  or  even  shut 
up  in  a  lunatic  asylum.  But  who  wouldn't  rather  be  St. 
Theresa  in  her  cell  than  Catharine  of  Russia  on  her  throne  ? 
And  in  your  case,  what  does  it  come  to  anyway  ?  Only  that 
you've  gone  through  the  fiery  furnace  and  come  out  un- 
scathed. All  the  better — you'll  be  a  living  witness,  a  ])root 
that  it  is  possible  to  pass  through  this  wicked  Babylon  un- 
harmed and  untouched." 

"  Yes,  if  I  were  a  man — but  with  a  woman  it  is  so  dilTer- 
ent !  It  is  an  honour  to  a  man  to  have  conquered  the  world, 
but  a  disgrace  to  a  woman  to  have  fought  with  it.  Yes,  be- 
lieve me,  I  know  Avhat  I'm  saying.  That's  the  cruel  tragedy 
in  a  woman's  life,  do  what  you  will  to  hide  it.  And  then 
you  are  so  much  in  the  eye  of  the  world ;  and  besides  your 
own  position  there  is  your  family's,  your  uncle's.  Think 
what  it  would  be  if  the  world  pointed  the  finger  of  scorn  at 
your — at  your  mission — at  your  high  and  noble  aims — and 
all  on  account  of  me !  You  would  cease  to  love  me — and 
I— I " 

"  Listen  ! "  He  had  been  shuffling  restlessly  on  the  pave- 
ment before  her.  "  Here  I  stand  !  Here  are  you  !  Let  the 
waves  of  public  opinion  dash  themselves  against  us — we 
stand  or  fall  together  ! " 

"  Oh,  oh,  oh  !  " 

She  was  crying  on  his  breast,  but  with  what  mixed  and 
conflicting  feelings  !    Joy,  pain,  delight,  dread,  hope,  disap- 


400  THE   CHRISTIAN. 

pointmeiit.  She  had  tried  to  dishonour  herself  in  his  eyes, 
and  it  would  have  broken  her  heart  if  she  had  succeeded. 
But  she  had  failed  and  he  had  triumphed,  and  that  was 
harder  still  to  bear. 

From  overhead  they  heard  the  last  lines  of  the  song : 

Erreicht  den  Hof  mit  Mlih  und  Noth 
In  seinen  Armen  das  Kind  war  todt. 

"Good-night,"  she  whispered,  and  fled  into  the  house. 
The  lights  in  the  dining-room  were  lowered,  but  she  found 
a  telegram  that  was  waiting  on  the  mantelpiece.  It  was 
from  Sefton,  the  manager :  "  Author  arrived  in  London  to- 
day. Hopes  to  be  at  rehearsal  Monday.  Please  be  there 
certain." 

The  world  was  seizing  her  again,  the  imaginary  Gloria 
was  dragging  her  back  with  visions  of  splendour  and  suc- 
cess. But  she  crept  upstairs  and  went  by  the  drawing-room 
on  tip-toe.  "  Not  to-night,"  she  thought.  "  My  face  is  not 
fit  to  be  seen  to-night." 

There  was  a  dying  fire  in  her  bedroom,  and  her  evening 
gown  had  been  laid  out  on  a  chair  in  front  of  it.  She  put 
the  gown  away  in  a  drawer,  and  out  of  a  box  which  she 
drew  from  beneath  the  bed  she  took  a  far  different  costume. 
It  was  the  nurse's  outdoor  cloak,  which  she  had  bought  for 
u.se  at  the  hosintal.  She  held  it  a  moment  by  the  tips  of  her 
fingers  and  looked  at  it,  and  then  put  it  back  with  a  sigh. 

"  Gloria !  is  that  you  ? "  Rosa  called  up  the  stairs ;  and 
Drake's  cheery  voice  cried,  "  Won't  our  nightingale  come 
down  and  give  us  a  stave  before  I  go  ? " 

"  Too  late !  Just  going  to  bed.  Good-night,"  she  an- 
swered. Then  she  lit  a  candle  and  sat  down  to  write  a 
letter. 

"  It's  no  use,  dear  Jolni,  I  can  not  1  It  would  be  like  put- 
ting bad  money  into  the  otfertory  to  put  me  into  that  holy 
work.  Not  that  I  don't  admire  it,  and  love  it,  and  worship 
it.  It  is  the  greatest  work  in  the  world,  and  last  week  I 
thought  I  could  count  everything  else  as  dross,  only  remem- 
bcriiig  that  I  loved  you  and  that  nothing  ehse  mattered.  But 
now  I  know  that  this  was  a  vain  and  fleeting  sentiment,  and 
that  tlie  sights  and  .scenes  of  your  work  repel  me  on  a  nearer 


THE  DEVIL'S  ACRE.  401 

view,  just  as  the  hospital  repelled  me  iu  the  early  mornings 
when  tlie  wards  were  being  cleaned  and  the  wounds  dressed, 
and  before  the  flowers  were  laid  about. 

"  Oh,  forgive  me,  forgive  me !  But  if  I  am  fit  to  join 
your  life  at  all  it  can  not  be  in  London.  That  '  old  serpent 
called  tlie  devil  and  Satan'  would  be  certain  to  torment  me 
here.  I  could  not  live  within  sight  and  sound  of  London 
and  go  on  with  the  life  you  live.  London  would  drag  me 
back.  I  feel  as  if  it  were  an  earlier  lover,  and  I  must  fly 
away  from  it.  Is  that  possible  ?  Can  we  go  elsewhere  ?  It 
is  a  monstrous  demand,  I  know.  Say  you  can  not  agree  to 
it.     Say  so  at  once — it  will  serve  me  right." 

The  stout  watchman  of  the  New  Inn  was  calling  mid- 
night when  Glory  stole  out  to  post  her  letter.  It  fell  into 
the  letter-box  with  a  thud,  and  she  crept  back  like  a  guilty 
tiling. 

XVI. 

Next  morning  Mrs.  Callender  heard  John  Storm  singing 
to  himself  before  he  left  his  bedroom,  and  she  was  standing 
at  the  bottom  of  the  stairs  when  he  came  down  three  steps 
at  a  time. 

"  Bless  me,  laddie,"  she  said,  "  to  see  your  face  shining  a 
body  would  say  that  somebody  had  left  ye  a  legacy  or 
bought  ye  a  benefice  instead  of  taking  your  church  frae 
ye!" 

"  Why,  yes,  and  better  than  both,  and  that's  just  what  I 
was  going  to  tell  you." 

"You  must  be  in  a  hurry  to  do  it,  too,  coming  down- 
stairs like  a  cataract." 

"  You  came  down  like  a  cataract  yourself  once  on  a  time, 
auntie  ;  I'll  lay  my  life  on  that." 

''Aye,  did  I,  and  not  sae  lang  since  neither.  And  fools 
and  prudes  cried  '  Oh  ! '  and  called  me  a  tomboy.  But,  hoots  ! 
I  was  nought  but  a  body  born  a  wee  before  her  time.  All 
the  lasses  are  tomboys  now,  bless  them,  the  bright  heart- 
some  things ! " 

"Auntie,"  said  John  softly,  seating  himself  at  the  break- 
fast table,  "  what  d'ye  think  ?  " 


402 


THE  CHRISTIAN. 


She  eyed  him  knowingly.  "  Nay,  I'm  ower  thrang-  work- 
ing to  be  bothered  thinking.     Out  with  it,  laddie." 

He  looked  wise.  "  Don't  you  remember  saying  that  work 
like  mine  wanted  a  woman's  hand  in  it  ? " 

Her  old  eyes  blinked.     "  Maybe  I  did,  but  what  of  it  ? " 

'*  Well,  I've  taken  your  advice,  and  now  a  woman's  hand 
is  coming  into  it  to  guide  it  and  direct  it." 

"  It  must  be  the  right  hand,  though,  mind  that." 

"  It  icill  be  the  right  hand,  auntie." 

"  Weel,  that's  grand,"  with  another  twinkle.  "  I  thought 
it  might  be  the  left,  ye  see,  and  ye  might  be  putting  a  wed- 
ding-ring on  it ! "  And  then  she  burst  into  a  peal  of 
laughter. 

'*  However  did  you  find  it  out  ? "  he  said,  with  looks  of 
astonishment. 

"  Tut,  laddie,  love  and  a  cough  can  not  be  hidden.  And 
to  think  a  woman  couldna  see  through  you,  too  !  But  come," 
tapping  the  table  with  both  hands,  "  who  is  she  ? " 

"Guess." 

"  Not  one  of  your  Sistei'S — no  ? "  with  hesitation. 

"  No,"  with  emphasis. 

"  Some  other  simpering  thing,  na  doot — they're  all  alike 
these  days." 

"  But  didn't  you  say  the  girls  were  all  tomboys  now  ? " 

"And  if  I  did,  d'ye  want  a  body  to  be  singing  the  same 
song  always  ?  But  come,  what  like  is  she  ?  When  I  hear 
of  a  lassie  I  like  fine  to  know  her  colour  first.  What's  her 
complexion  ? " 

"  Guess  again." 

"  Is  she  fair  ?  But  what  a  daft  auld  dunce  I  am  ! — to  be 
sure  she's  fair." 

"  Why.  how  did  you  know  that,  now  ? " 

"  Pooh  !  They  say  a  dark  man  is  a  jewel  in  a  fair 
woman's  eye,  and  I'll  w^arrant  it's  as  true  the  other  way 
about.     But  what's  her  name  ? " 

John's  face  suddenly  straightened  and  he  pretended  not 
to  hear. 

"What's  her  name  ?"  stamping  with  both  feet. 

"  Dear  me,  auntie,  what  an  ugly  old  cap  you're  Avear- 
ing!" 


THE  DEVIL'S  ACRE.  403 

"  Uffly  ? "  reaching  up  to  the  glass.  "  Who  says  it's 
ugly?-' 

"  I  do." 

"  Tut !  you'i'e  only  a  bit  boy,  born  yesterday.  But,  man, 
what's  all  this  botherment  about  telling  a  lassie's  name  ?" 

"  I'll  bring  her  to  see  you,  auntie." 

"  I  should  think  you  will,  indeed  !  and  michty  quick, 
too  !  " 

This  was  on  Sunday,  and  by  the  first  post  on  Monday 
John  Storm  received  Glory's  letter.  It  fell  on  him  like  a 
blast  out  of  a  cloud  in  the  black  northeast,  and  cut  him  to 
the  heart's  core.  He  read  it  again,  and  being  alone  he  burst 
into  laughter.  He  took  it  up  a  third  time,  and  when  he  had 
finished  there  was  something  at  his  throat  that  seemed  to 
choke  him.  His  fii'st  impulse  was  fury.  He  wanted  to  rush 
off  to  Glory  and  insult  her,  to  ask  her  if  she  was  mad  or 
believed  him  to  be  so.  Because  she  was  a  coward  herself, 
being  slave-bound  to  the  world  and  afraid  to  fight  it  face  to 
face,  did  she  wish  to  make  a  coward  of  him  also — to  see  him 
sneak  away  from  the  London  that  had  kicked  him,  like  a 
cur  with  its  tail  between  its  legs  ? 

After  this  there  came  an  icy  chill  and  an  awful  con- 
sciousness that  mightier  forces  were  at  work  than  any  mere 
human  weakness.  It  was  the  world  itself,  the  great  pitiless 
world,  that  was  dividing  them  again  as  it  had  divided  them 
before,  but  irrevocably  now — not  as  a  playful  nurse  that  puts 
petted  children  apart,  but  as  a  torrent  that  tears  the  cliffs 
asunder.  "  Leave  the  world,  my  son,  and  return  to  your 
unfinished  vows."  Could  it  be  true  that  this  was  only  an- 
other reminder  of  his  broken  obedience  ? 

Then  came  pity.  If  Glory  was  slave-bound  to  the 
world,  which  of  us  was  not  in  chains  to  something  ?  And 
the  worst  slavery  of  all  was  slavery  to  self.  But  that  was 
an  abyss  he  dared  not  look  into  ;  and  he  began  to  think  ten- 
derly of  Glory,  to  tell  himself  how  much  she  had  to  sacri- 
fice, to  remember  his  anger  and  to  be  ashamed. 

A  week  passed,  and  he  went  about  his  ivork  in  a  helpless 
way,  like  a  derelict  witiiout  rudder  or  sail  and  with  the  sea 
roaring  about  it.  Every  afternoon  when  he  came  home 
fx'om  Soho.Mrs.  Callender  would  trip  into  the  hall  wearing 


404: 


THE  CHRISTIAN. 


a  new  cap  with  a  smart  bow,  and  finding  that  he  was  alone 
she  would  say,  "  Not  to-day,  then  ?  " 

"  Not  to-day,"  he  would  answer,  and  they  would  try  to 
smile.  But  seeing  the  stamp  of  suffering  on  his  face,  she 
said  at  last,  "  Tut,  laddie !  they  love  too  much  who  die  for 
love." 

On  the  Sunday  afternoon  following  he  turned  again 
toward  Clement's  Inn.  He  had  come  to  a  decision  at  last, 
and  was  calm  and  even  content,  yet  his  happiness  was  like 
a  gourd  which  had  gi'own  up  in  a  day,  and  the  morrow's 
sun  had  withered  it. 

Glory  had  been  to  rehearsal  every  day  that  week.  Going 
to  the  theatre  on  Monday  night  she  had  said  to  herself, 
"  There  can  be  no  harm  in  rehearsing — I'm  not  compelled 
to  play."  Notwithstanding  her  nervousness,  the  author  had 
complimented  her  on  her  passion  and  self-abandonment, 
and  going  home  she  had  thought :  "  I  might  even  go  thi-ough 
the  first  performance  and  then  give  it  all  up.  If  I  had  a 
success,  that  would  be  beautiful,  splendid,  almost  heroic — 
it  would  be  thrilling  to  abandon  everything."  Not  hearing 
from  John,  she  told  herself  he  must  be  angry,  and  she  felt 
sorry  for  him.  "He  doesn't  know  yet  how  much  I  am 
going  to  do."  Thus  the  other  woman  in  her  tempted  and 
overcame  her,  and  drew  her  on  from  day  to  day. 

Mrs.  Macrae  sent  Lord  Robert  to  invite  her  to  luncheon 
on  Sunday.  "There  can  be  no  harm  in  going  there,"  she 
thought.  She  went  with  Rosa,  and  was  charmed  with  the 
lively,  gay,  and  brilliant  company.  Clever  and  beautiful 
women,  clever  and  handsome  men,  and  nearly  all  of  them 
of  lier  own  profession.  The  mistiness  of  the  mansion  kept 
open  house  after  church  parade  on  Sunday,  and  she  sat  at 
the  bottom  of  her  table,  dressed  in  black  velvet,  Avith  the 
Archdeacon  on  her  right  and  a  famous  actor  on  her  left. 
Loi'd  Robert  sat  at  the  head  and  talked  to  a  lady  whose  re- 
marks were  heard  all  over  the  room  ;  but  Lady  Robert  was 
nowliere  to  be  seen  ;  there  was  a  hush  when  her  name  was 
mentioned,  and  then  a  wliispered  rumour  that  .she  had  dif- 
ferences with  her  husband,  and  had  .scandalized  her  mother 
by  some  act  of  indiscretion. 

Glory's    face   beamed,  and  for   the   first   half-hour  she 


THE   DEVIL'S  ACRE.  405 

seemed  to  be  on  the  point  of  bi'eaking  into  a  rapturous 
"  Well ! "  Nearly  opposite  to  her  at  the  table  sat  a  lady 
whose  sleepy  look  and  drowsy  voice  and  airs  of  languor 
showed  that  she  was  admired,  and  that  slie  knew  it.  Glory 
found  her  very  amusing,  and  broke  into  little  trills  of 
laughter  at  her  weary,  withering  comments.  This  drew  the 
attention  of  some  of  the  men  ;  they  found  the  contrast  in- 
tex'esting.  The  conversation  consisted  first  of  hints,  half 
signs,  brilliant  bits  of  by-play,  and  Glory  rose  to  it  like  a 
fish  to  the  May-fly.  Tlien  it  fell  upon  bicycling  and  the 
costumes  ladies  wore  for  it.  The  languid  one  commented 
upon  the  female  fetich,  the  skirt,  and  condemned  "  blo(5ln- 
ers,"  wherevipon  Glory  declared  that  they  were  just  charm- 
ing, and  being  challenged  (by  a  gentleman)  for  her  reasons 
she  said,  "  Because  when  a  girl's  got  them  on  she  feels  as  if 
she's  an  understudy  for  a  man,  and  may  even  have  a  chance 
of  playing  the  part  itself  in  another  and  a  better  world." 

Then  there  was  general  laughter,  and  the  gentleman 
said,  "  You're  in  the  profession  yourself  now,  aren't  you  ? '' 

"  Just  a  stranger  within  your  gates,"  she  answered  ;  and 
when  the  talk  turned  on  a  recent  lawsuit,  and  the  languid 
one  said  it  was  inconceivable  that  the  woman  concerned 
could  have  been  such  a  coward  in  relation  to  the  man, 
Glory  protested  that  it  was  just  as  natural  for  a  woman  to 
be  in  fear  of  a  man  (if  she  loved  him)  as  to  be  afraid  of  a 
mouse  or  to  look  under  the  bed. 

"  Ma  chere,^''  said  a  dainty  little  lady  sitting  next  but  one 
(she  had  come  to  London  to  perform  in  a  silent  play),  "  they 
tells  me  you's  half  my  countrywoman.  All  right.  Will 
you  not  speak  de  French  to  poor  me  ? "  And  when  Glory 
did  so  the  little  one  clapped  her  hands  and  declared  she  had 
never  heard  the  English  speak  French  before. 

"Say  French-cum-Irish,''  .said  Glory,  "or,  rather,  French 
which  begat  Irish,  which  begat  Manx  ! " 

"  Original,  isn't  she  ? "  said  somebody  who  was  lavighing. 

"  Like  a  sea-gull  among  so  many  pigeons  !  "  said  some- 
body else,  and  the  hothouse  airs  of  the  languid  lady  were 
lost  as  in  a  f^'esh  gust  fi'om  the  salt  sea. 

But  her  spirits  subsided  the  moment  she  had  recrossed 
the  threshold.    As  they  were  going  home  in  the  cab,  past 


4Qg  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

the  hospital  and  down  Piccadilly,  Rosa,  who  was  proud  and 
happy,  said  :  "  There  !  All  society  isn't  stupid  and  insipid, 
you  see  ;  and  there  are  members  of  your  own  profession  wlio 
try  to  live  up  to  the  ideal  of  moral  character  attainable  by 
a  gentleman  in  England  even  yet."' 

"  Yes,  no  doubt.  .  .  .  But,  Rosa,  there's  another  kind  of 
man  altogether,  whose  love  has  the  reverence  of  a  religion, 
and  if  I  ever  meet  a  man  like  that— one  who  is  ready  to 
trample  all  the  world  under  his  feet  for  me— I  think— yes,  I 
really  think  I  shall  leave  everything  behind  and  follow 

him." 

•"Leave  everything  behind,  indeed!  That  icoidd  be 
pretty  !  When  everything  yields  before  you,  too,  and  all 
the  world  and' his  wife  are  waiting  to  shout  your  praises  ! "' 

Rosa  had  gone  to  her  office,  and  Glory  was  turning  over 
some  designs  for  stage  costumes,  when  Liza  came  in  to  say 
that  the  "Farver"  was  coming  upstairs. 

"  He  has  come  to  scold  me,"  thought  Glory,  so  she  be- 
gan to  hum,  to  push  things  about,  and  fill  the  room  with 
noise.  But  when  she  saw  his  drawn  face  and  wide-open 
eyes  she  wanted  to  fall  on  his  neck  and  cry. 

"  You  have  come  to  tell  me  you  can't  do  what  I  sug- 
gested ? "  she  said.     "  Of  course  you  can't." 

"  No,"  he  said  slowly,  very  slowly.  "  I  have  thought  it 
all  over,  and  concluded  that  I  can — that  I  must.  Y"es,  I  am 
willing  to  go  away,  Glory,  and  when  you  are  ready  I  shall 
be  ready  too." 

"  But  whei'e — where V 

''  I  don't  know  yet ;  but  I  am  willing  to  wait  for  tlie  un- 
rolling of  the  scroll.  I  am  willing  to  follow  step  by  step, 
not  knowing  whither.  I  am  willing  to  go  where  God  wills. 
for  life  or  death." 

"  But  your  work  in  London — j^our  great,  great  work " 

"  God  will  see  to  tliat.  Glory.  He  can  do  without  any  of 
us.  None  of  us  can  do  witliout  him.  The  sun  will  set  with- 
out any  jissistance,  you  know,"  and  the  pale  face  made  an 
eti'ort  lo  smile. 

"  But,  J  ohn,  my  dear,  dear  John,  this  is  not  what  you 
expectcnl,  what  you  have  been  thinking  of  and  dreaming  of, 
and  bailding  your  hopes  upon.'' 


THE   DEVrL'^  ACRE.  407 

"  No,"  he  said ;  "  and  for  your  sake  I  aiii  sorry,  very 
sorry.  I  thought  of  a  great  cai'eer  for  you,  Glory.  Not 
rescue  woi'k  merely — others  can  do  that.  There  are  many 
good  women  in  the  world— nearly  all  women  are  good,  but 
few  are  great — and  for  the  salvation  of  England,  what  Eng- 
land wants  now  is  a  great  woman.  .  .  .  As  for  me — God 
knows  best !  He  has  his  own  way  of  weaning  us  from  van- 
ity and  the  snares  of  the  devil.  You  were  only  an  instru- 
ment in  his  hands,  my  child,  hardly  knowing  what  you 
were  doing.  Perhaps  he  has  a  work  of  intercession  for  us 
somewhere — far  away  from  here — in  some  foreign  mission 
field — who  can  say  ? " 

A  feeling  akin  to  terror  caught  her  breath,  and  she 
looked  up  at  him  with  tearful  eyes. 

"  After  all,  I  am  glad  that  this  has  happened,"  he  said. 
"  It  will  help  me  to  conquer  self,  to  jjut  self  behind  my  back 
forever,  to  show  the  world,  by  leaving  London,  that  self 
has  not  entered  into  my  count  at  all,  and  that  I  am  think- 
ing of  nothing  but  my  work." 

A  warm  flush  rose  to  her  cheeks  as  he  spoke,  and  again 
she  wanted  to  fling  herself  on  his  neck  and  cry.  But  he  was 
too  calm  for  that,  too  sad  and  too  spiritual.  When  he  rose 
to  go  she  held  out  her  hands  to  him,  but  he  only  took  them 
and  carried  them  to  his  lips,  and  kissed  them. 

As  soon  as  she  was  alone  she  flung  hei'self  down  and 
cried,  "  Oh,  give  me  strength  to  follow  this  man,  who  mis- 
takes his  love  of  me  for  the  love  of  God  !  "  But  even  while 
she  sat  with  bent  head  and  her  hands  over  her  face  the 
creeping  sense  came  back  as  of  another  woman  within  her 
who  was  fighting  for  her  heart.  She  had  conquered  again, 
but  at  what  a  cost !  The  foreign  mission  field— what  asso- 
ciations had  she  with  that  ?  Only  the  memory  of  her  fa- 
ther's lonely  life  and  friendless  death. 

She  was  feeling  cold  and  had  begun  to  shiver,  when  the 
door  opened  and  Rosa  entered. 

"  So  he  did  come  again  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  I  thought  he  would,"  and  Rosa  laughed  coldly. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ? " 

"That  when    religious    feelings    take    possession  of    a 


408  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

mail  he  will  stop  at  nothing  to  gain  the  end  he  has  in 
view." 

"  Rosa,"  said  Glory,  flushing  crimson,  "  if  you  imply  that 
my  friend  is  capable  of  one  unworthy  act  or  thought  I 
must  ask  you  to  withdraw  your  words  absolutely  and  at 
once ! " 

'•  Very  well,  dear.  I  was  only  thinking  for  your  own 
good.  We  working  w'omen  must  not  ruin  our  lives  or  let 
anybody  else  ruin  them.  'Duty,'  'self-sacrifice' — I  know 
the  old  formulas,  but  I  don't  believe  in  them.  Obej^  your 
own  heart,  my  dear,  that  is  your  first  duty.  A  man  like 
Storm  would  take  you  out  of  your  real  self,  and  stop  your 
career,  and " 

"  Oh,  my  career,  my  career  !  I'm  tired  to  death  of  hear- 
ing of  it ! " 

"Glory!" 

"And  who  know^s  ?    I  may  not  go  on  with  it,  after  all." 

"  If  you  have  lost  your  sense  of  duty  to  yourself,  have 
you  forgotten  your  duty  to  Mr.  Drake  ?  Think  what  Mr. 
Drake  has  done  for  you  !  " 

"  Mr.  Drake  !     Mr.  Drake  !    I'm  sick  of  that  too." 

"  How  strange  you  are  to-night,  Glory  I " 

"  Am  I  ?  So  are  you.  It  is  Mr.  Drake  here  and  Mr. 
Drake  there  !    Are  you  trying  to  force  me  into  his  arms  ? " 

"  Is  it  you  that  says  that,  Glory — you  ?  and  to  me,  too  ? 
Don't  you  see  that  this  is  a  different  case  altogether  ?  And 
if  I  thought  of  my  own  feelings  only — consulted  my  own 
heart " 

"  Rosa ! " 

"Ah!  Is  it  so  very  foolish?  Yes,  he  is  young  and 
handsome,  and  rich  and  brilliant,  while  I — I  am  ridiculous." 

"  No,  no,  Rosa ;  I  don't  mean  that." 

"  I  do,  though ;  and  when  you  came  in  between  us — 
young  and  beautiful  and  clever — everything  that  I  was  not, 
and  could  never  liope  to  be— and  he  was  so  drawn  to  you — 
what  was  I  to  do  ?  Nurse  my  hopeless  and  ridiculous  love 
— or  think  of  him — his  happiness  ?" 

"  Rosa,  my  poor  dear  Rosa,  forgive  me  !  forgive  me  ! " 

An  hour  later,  dinner  being  over,  they  had  returned  to 
the  drawing-room.    Rosa  was  writing  at  the  table,  and  there 


THE   DEVIL'S  ACRE.  409 

■was  no  sound  in  the  room  except  the  scratching-  of  her  pen, 
the  falling  of  the  slips  of  "  copy,"  and  the  dull  reverberation 
of  the  bell  of  St.  Clement's  Danes,  which  was  ringing  for 
evening  service.  Glory  was  sitting  at  the  desk  by  the  win- 
dow, with  her  head  on  her  hands,  looking  down  into  the 
garden.  Out  of  the  dead  load  at  her  heart  she  kept  saying 
to  herself :  "  Could  I  do  that  ?  Could  I  give  up  the  one  I 
loved  for  his  own  good,  putting  myself  back,  and  thinking 
of  him  only  ?  "  And  then  a  subtle  hypocrisy  stole  over  her 
and  she  thought,  "Yes  I  could,  I  could  !"  and  in  a  fever  of 
nervous  excitement  she  began  to  write  a  letter : 

"  The  wind  bloweth  where  it  listeth,  and  so  with  a 
woman's  will.  I  can  not  go  abroad  witli  you,  dear,  because 
I  can  not  allow  myself  to  break  up  your  life,  for  it  would  be 
that — it  would,  it  would,  you  know  it  would !  There  are 
ten  thousand  men  good  enough  for  the  foreign  mission  field, 
but  there  is  onlj^  one  man  in  the  world  for  your  work  in 
London.  This  is  one  of  the  things  hidden  from  the  wise, 
and  revealed  to  childi'eii  and  fools.  It  would  be  wrong  of' 
me  to  take  you  away  from  your  great  scene.  I  daren't  do 
it.  It  would  be  too  great  a  responsibility.  My  conscience 
must  have  been  dead  and  buried  when  I  suggested  such  a 
possibility  !  Thank  God,  it  has  had  a  resurrection,  and  it  is 
not  yet  too  late." 

But  when  the  letter  was  sealed  and  stamped,  and  sent 
out  to  the  post,  she  thought :  "  I  must  be  mad,  and  there 
is  no  method  in  my  madness  eithei\  What  do  I  want — to 
join  his  life  in  London  ? "  And  then  remembering  what 
she  had  written,  it  seemed  as  if  the  other  woman  must 
have  written  it — the  visionary  woman,  the  woman  she  was 
making  herself  into  day  by  day. 


XVII. 

John  Storm  had  left  home  early  on  Monday  morning.  It 
was  the  last  day  of  his  tenancy  of  the  clergy-house,  and  there 
was  mtrch  to  do  at  Soho.  Toward  noon  he  made  his  way 
to  the  church  in  Bisliopsgate  Street  for  the  first  time  since 
he  had  left  the  Brotherhood.  It  was  midday  service,  and 
27 


410  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

the  little  place  was  full  of  business  men  with  their  quick 
eyes  and  eager  faces.  The  Superior  preached,  and  the  ser- 
mon was  on  the  religious  life.  We  were  each  composed  of 
two  beings,  one  temporal,  the  other  eternal,  one  carnal,  the 
other  spiritual.  Life  was  a  constant  warfare  between  these 
two  nearly  matched  forces,  and  often  the  victory  seemed  to 
sway  from  this  side  to  tliat.  Our  enemy  with  the  chariots 
of  iron  was  ourselves.  There  was  a  Judas  in  each  one  of  us 
ready  to  betray  us  with  a  kiss  if  allowed.  The  lusts  of  the 
flesh  were  the  most  deadly  sins,  absolute  chastity  the  most 
pleasing  to  God  of  all  virtues.  Did  we  desire  to  realize 
what  the  religious  life  could  be  ?  Then  let  us  reflect  upon 
the  news  which  had  come  from  the  South  Seas.  What  was 
the  word  that  had  fallen  that  morning  on  all  Christendom 
like  a  thunderclap,  say,  rather,  like  the  blast  of  a  celestial 
trumpet  ?  Father  Damien  was  dead  !  Think  of  his  lonely 
life  in  that  distant  island  where  doomed  men  lived  out  their 
days.  Cut  off  from  earthly  marriage,  with  no  one  claiming 
his  affection  in  the  same  way  as  Christ,  he  was  free  to  com- 
mit himself  entirely  to  God  and  to  God's  afflicted  childreii. 
He  was  ti-uly  married  to  Christ.  Christ  occujiied  his  soul 
as  Lord  and  spouse.  Glorioiis  life  !  Glorious  death  !  Eter- 
nal crown  of  glory  waiting  for  him  in  tlie  glory  ever- 
lasting ! 

When  the  service  ended  John  Storm  stepped  up  to  speak 
to  the  Father.  His  wide-open  eyes  were  flaming ;  he  was 
visibly  excited.  "I  came  to  ask  a  question,"  he  said,  "but 
it  is  answered  already.  I  will  follow  Father  Damien  and 
take  up  his  work.  I  was  thinking  of  the  mission  field, 
but  my  doubt  was  whether  God  had  called  me,  and  I  had 
great  fear  of  going  uncalled.  God  brought  me  here  this 
morning,  not  knowing  what  I  was  to  do,  but  now  I  know, 
and  my  mind  is  made  up  at  last." 

The  Father  was  not  less  moved.  Tliey  went  out  into  the 
courtyard  together  and  walked  to  and  fro,  planning,  schem- 
ing, contriving,  deciding. 

"  You'll  take  tlie  vows  first,  my  son  ? " 

"The  vows?"' 

"The  life  vows." 

"But — but  will  that  bp  necessarv  ?" 


THE   DEVIL'S  ACRE.  411 

"  It  will  be  best.  Think  what  a  peculiar  appeal  it  will 
have  for  those  poor  doomed  creatures !  They  are  cut  off 
from  the  world  by  a  terrible  affliction,  but  you  will  be  cut 
off  by  the  graciousness  of  a  Christ-fed  purity.  They  are 
lepers  made  of  disease  ;  you  will  be  as  a  leper  for  the  king- 
dom of  heaven's  sake." 

"  But,  Father — if  that  be  so — how  much  greater  the  ap- 
peal will  be  if — if  a  woman  goes  out  also  !  Say  she  is  young 
and  beautiful  and  of  great  gifts  ? " 

"  Brother  Andrew  may  go  with  you,  my  son." 

"Yes,  Brother  Andrew  as  well.  But  holy  men  in 
all  ages  have  been  bound  by  ties  of  intimacy  and  affec- 
tion to  good  women  who  have  lived  and  woi'ked  beside 
them." 

"Sisters,  my  son,  elder  sisters  always." 

"  And  why  not  ?  Sister,  indeed,  and  united  to  me  by  a 
great  and  spiritual  love." 

"  We  are  none  of  us  invincible,  my  son ;  let  us  not  de- 
spise danger." 

"  Danger,  Father  !  What  is  the  worth  of  my  religion  if 
it  does  not  enable  me  to  defy  that  ? " 

"  Well,  well — do  not  decide  too  soon.  I'll  come  to  you 
at  Soho  this  evening." 

"Do.  It's  our  last  night  there.  I  must  tell  my  poor 
people  what  my  plans  are  to  be.  Good-bye  for  the  present, 
Father,  good-bye." 

"  Good-bye,  my  son,"  and  as  John  Storm  went  off 
with  a  light  heart  and  bounding  step  the  Father  passed 
indoors  with  downcast  face,  saying  to  himself  with  a  sigh, 
"  Let  him  that  thinketh  he  standeth  take  heed  lest  he 
fall." 

It  was  Lord  Mayor's  Day  again,  the  streets  were  thronged, 
and  John  Storm  was  long  in  forging  his  way  home.  Glory's 
letter  was  waiting  for  him,  and  he  tore  it  open  with  nervous 
fingers,  but  when  he  had  read  it  he  laughed  aloud.  "  God 
bless  her!  But  she  doesn't  know  everything  yet."  Mrs. 
Callender  was  out  in  the  carriage ;  she  would  be  back  for 
luiach,  and  the  maid  was  laying  the  cloth  ;  but  he  would  not 
wait.  After  scribbling  a  few  lines  in  pencil  to  tell  of  his 
great  resolve,  he  set  off  to  Clement's  Inn.     The  Strand  was 


412  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

less  crowded  when  lie  returned  to  it,  and  the  newsboys  were 
calling  the  evening  papers  with  "  Full  Memoir  of  Father 
Damien." 

On  coming  home  from  rehearsal  Glory  had  found  the 
costume  for  her  third  act,  her  great  act,  awaiting  her.  All 
day  long  she  had  been  thinking  of  her  letter  to  John,  half 
ashamed  of  it,  half  regretting  it,  almost  wishing  it  could  be 
withdrawn.  But  the  dress  made  a  great  tug  at  her  heart, 
and  she  could  not  resist  the  impulse  to  tiy  it  on.  The  nao- 
ment  she  had  done  so  the  visionary  woman  whose  part  she 
was  to  play  seemed  to  take  possession  of  her,  and  shame  and 
regret  were  gone. 

It  was  a  magnificent  stage  costume,  gi'een  as  the  grass  in 
spring  with  the  morning  sun  on  it.  The  gown  was  a  splen- 
did brocade  with  gold-embroidered  lace  around  the  square- 
cut  neck  and  about  the  shoulders  of  the  tight-made  sleeves. 
Round  her  hii)s  was  a  sash  of  golden  tissue,  and  its  hanging 
ends  were  fringed  with  emei'alds.  A  band  of  azure  stones 
encircled  her  head,  and  her  fingers  were  covered  with  tur- 
quoise rings. 

She  went  to  the  drawing-room,  shut  the  door,  and  began 
to  rehearse  the  scene.  It  was  where  the  imaginary  Gloria, 
being  vain  and  selfish,  trampled  everything  under  her  feet 
that  she  might  possess  the  world  and  the  things  of  the 
world.  Glory  spoke  the  words  aloud,  forgetting  they  were 
not  her  own,  until  she  heard  anotlier  voice  saying,  "  May  I 
come  in,  dear  ?  " 

It  was  John  at  the  door.  She  was  ashamed  of  her  cos- 
tume then,  but  there  was  no  running  away.  "  Yes,  of  course, 
come  in,"  she  cried,  trembling  all  over,  half  afraid  to  be 
seen,  and  yet  proud  too  of  her  beauty  and  her  splendour. 
When  he  entered  she  was  laughing  nervously  and  was  about 
to  say,  "  See,  this  has  happened  before " 

But  he  saw  nothing  unusual,  and  she  was  disappointed 
and  annoyed.  Coming  in  breatliless,  as  if  he  had  been  run- 
ning, he  Hung  himself  down  on  one  end  of  the  coucli.  threw 
his  hat  on  the  other  end,  and  said  :  "  What  did  I  tell  you, 
Glory  ?    Tlmt  a  way  would  open  itself,  and  it  has  I " 

"Roallv  ?" 


THE   DEVIL'S   ACRE.  413 

"  Didn't  you  think  of  it  when  you  saw  the  news  in  the 
papers  this  morning  ?  " 

"  What  news  ?  " 

"  That  Father  Damien  is  dead." 

"But  can  you — do  you  really  mean  that — do  you  in- 
tend  " 

"  I  do,  Gloiy— I  do.'' 

"Then  you  didn't  get  my  letter  this  morning  ? " 

"  Oh,  yes,  dear,  yes  ;  but  you  were  only  thinking  for  me — 
God  bless  you ! — that  I  was  giving  up  a  great  scene  for  a 
little  one.  But  this — this  is  the  greatest  scene  in  the  world, 
Glory.  Life  is  a  small  sacrifice  ;  the  true  sacrifice  is  a  living 
death,  a  living  crucifixion." 

She  felt  as  if  he  had  taken  her  by  the  throat  and  was 
choking  her.  He  had  got  uj)  and  was  walking  to  and  fro, 
talking  impetuously. 

"  Yes,  it  is  a  great  sacrifice  I  am  asking  you  to  make 
now,  dear.  That  far-oft'  island,  the  poor  lepers,  and  then  life- 
long banishment.  But  God  will  reward  you,  and  with  in- 
terest too.  Only  think,  Glory  !  Think  of  the  effect  of  your 
mere  presence  out  there  among  those  poor  doomed  creatures  ! 
A  young  and  beautiful  woman  !  Not  a  melancholy  old  dolt 
like  me,  preaching  and  prating  to  them,  but  a  bright  and 
brilliant  girl,  laughing  with  them,  playing  games  with 
them,  making  mimicry  for  them,  and  singing  to  them  in 
the  voice  of  an  angel.  Oh,  they'll  love  you.  Glory,  they'll 
worship  you — you'll  be  next  to  God  and  his  blessed  mother 
with  them.  And  already  I  hear  them  saying  among  them- 
selves :  '  Heaven  bless  her  !  She  might  have  had  the  world 
at  her  feet  and  made  a  great  name  and  a  great  foi'tune,  but 
she  gave  it  all  iip — all,  all,  all — for  pity  and  lov^e  of  us!' 
Won't  it  be  glorious,  my  child  ?  Won't  it  be  the  noblest 
thing  in  all  the  world  ? " 

And  she  struggled  to  answer,  "  Yes,  no  doubt — the  noblest 
thing  in  all  the  world  !  " 

"  Then  you  agree  ?  Ah,  I  knew  your  heart  spoke  in  your 
first  letter,  and  you  wanted  to  leave  London.  You  shall, 
too,  for  God  has  willed  it." 

Then  slie  recovered  a  little  and  made  a  nervous  attempt 
to  withdraw.     "  But  the  church  at  Westminster  ?  " 


414  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

He  laughed  like  a  boy.  "  Oh,  Golightly  may  have  that 
now,  and  welcome." 

"  But  the  work  in  London  ?  " 

''  Ah,  that's  all  right.  Glory.  Ever  since  I  heard  from 
you  I  have  been  dealing  with  the  bonds  which  bound  me  to 
London  one  by  one,  unravelling  some  and  breaking  othei's. 
They  are  all  discharged  now,  every  one  of  them,  and  I  need 
think  of  them  no  more.  Self  is  put  behind  forever,  and  I 
can  stand  before  God  and  say  :  '  Do  with  me  as  you  will ;  I 
am  ready  for  anything — anything  ! ' "' 

"Oh!" 

"  Crying,  Glory  ?  My  poor,  dear  child  I  But  why  ai'e 
you  crying  ? " 

"  It's  nothing  !  " 

"  Ai-e  you  sure — quite  sure  ?  Am  I  asking  too  much  of 
you  ?    Don't  let  us  deceive  ourselves — think " 

"  Let  us  talk  of  something  else  now."  She  began  to 
laugh.     "  Look  at  me,  John — don't  I  look  well  to-day  ?  " 

"  You  always  look  well,  Glory." 

"  But  isn't  there  any  ditf erence — this  dress,  for  instance  ? " 

Then  his  sight  came  back  and  his  big  eyes  sparkled. 
"  How  beautiful  you  are,  dear  !  " 

"  Really  ?     Do  I  look  nice  then— really  ?  " 

"  My  beautiful,  beautiful  girl !  " 

Her  head  was  thrown  back,  and  she  glowed  with  joy. 

"  Don't  come  too  near  me,  you  know — don't  crush- me." 

"  Nay,  no  fear  of  that — I  should  be  afraid." 

"  Not  that  I  mustn't  be  touched  exactly." 

"  What  will  they  think,  I  wonder,  those  poor,  lost  crea- 
tures, so  ugly,  so  disfigured  ?  " 

"And  my  red  hair.     This  colour  suits  it,  doesn't  it  ?  " 

"  Some  Madonna,  they'll  say ;  the  very  picture  of  the 
mother  of  God  herself  ! " 

"  Are  you— are  you  afraid  of  me  in  this  frock,  dear  ? 
Shall  I  run  and  take  it  off  ?  " 

"  No — no ;  let  me  look  at  you  again." 

"  But  you  don't  like  me  to-day,  for  all  that," 

"  I  ? " 

"Do  you  know  you've  never  once  kissed  me  since  you 
came  into  the  room  ?  " 


THE   DEVIL'S  ACRE.  4I5 

"  Glory ! " 

"  My  love  !  my  love  !  " 

"And  you,"  he  said,  close  to  her  lips,  "are  you  ready  for 
anything  ? " 

"Anything-,"  she  whispered. 

At  the  next  moment  she  was  holding  herself  off  with  her 
arms  stiff  about  his  neck,  tliat  she  might  look  at  him  and  at 
her  lace  sleeves  at  the  same  time.  Suddenly  a  furrow  crossed 
his  brow.  He  had  remembered  the  Father's  warning,  and 
was  summoning  all  his  strength. 

"  But  out  there  111  love  you  as  a  sister.  Glory." 

"Ah!" 

"  For  the  sake  of  those  poor  doomed  beings  cut  off  from 
earthly  love  we'll  love  each  other  as  the  angels  love." 

"  Yes,  that  is  the  highest,  purest,  truest  love,  no  doubt. 
Still " 

"  What  does  the  old  Talmud  say  ? — '  He  who  divorces 
himself  from  the  joys  of  earth  weds  himself  to  the  glories 
of  Paradise.' " 

Her  lashes  were  still  wet ;  she  was  gazing  deep  into  his 
eyes. 

"And  to  think  of  being  united  in  the  next  world,  Glory 
— what  happiness,  what  ecstasy  !  " 

"  Love  me  in  this  world,  dearest,"  she  whispered. 

"  You'll  be  their  youth.  Glory,  their  strength,  their  love- 
liness ! " 

"  Be  mine,  darling,  be  mine  !  " 

But  the  furrow  crossed  his  brow  a  second  time,  and  he 
disengaged  himself  before  their  lips  had  met  again.  Then 
he  walked  about  the  room  as  before,  talking  in  broken  sen- 
tences. They  would  have  to  leave  soon — very  soon — almost 
at  once.  And  now  he  must  go  back  to  Soho.  There  was  so 
much  to  do,  to  arrange.  On  reaching  the  door  he  hesitated, 
quivering  with  love,  hardly  knowing  how  to  part  from  her. 
She  was  standing  with  head  down,  half  angry  and  half 
ashamed. 

"  Well,  au  revoir,^''  he  cried  in  a  strained  voice,  and  then 
fled  down  the  stairs.  "  The  Father  was  right."  he  thought. 
"  No  man  is  invincible.  But,  thank  God,  it  is  over !  It  can 
never  occur  again  !  " 


416 


THE   CHRISTIAN. 


Her  glow  had  left  her,  and  she  felt  chilled  and  lost. 
There  was  no  help  for  it  now,  and  escape  was  impossible. 
She  must  renounce  everything  for  the  man  who  had  re- 
nounced everything  for  her.  Sitting  on  the  couch,  she 
dropped  her  head  on  the  cushion  and  cried  like  a  child.  In 
the  lowest  depths  of  her  soul  she  knew  full  well  that  she 
could  never  go  away,  but  she  began  to  bid  good-bye  in  her 
heart  to  the  life  she  had  been  living.  The  charm  and  fasci- 
nation of  London  began  to  pass  before  her  like  a  imnorama, 
with  all  the  scenes  of  misery  and  squalor  left  out.  What  a 
beautiful  world  she  was  leaving  behind  her!  She  would 
remember  it  all  her  life  long  with  useless  and  unending  re- 
gret. Her  tears  were  flowing  through  the  fingers  which 
were  clasped  beneath  her  face. 

A  postman's  knock  came  to  the  door  downstairs.  The 
letter  was  from  the  manager,  written  in  the  swirl  and  rush 
of  theatrical  life,  and  reading  like  a  telegram:  "Theatre 
going  on  rapidly,  men  working  day  and  night,  rehearsals 
advanced  and  scenery  progressing ;  might  we  not  fix  this 
day  fortnight  for  the  first  performance  ? " 

Inclosed  with  this  was  a  letter  from  the  author  :  "  You 
are  on  the  eve  of  an  extraordinary  success,  dear  Gloria,  and 
I  write  to  reassure  and  congratulate  you.  Some  signs  of  in- 
experience I  may  perhaps  observe,  some  lack  of  ease  and 
simplicity,  but  already  it  is  a  ijerformance  of  so  much  pas- 
sion and  power  that  I  predict  for  it  a  triumphant  success. 
A  great  future  awaits  you.  Don't  shrink  from  it,  don't  be 
afraid  of  it ;  it  is  as  certain  as  that  the  sun  will  rise  to-mor- 
row." . 

She  carried  the  letter  to  her  lips,  then  rose  fi'om  the 
couch,  and  threw  up  her  head,  closed  her  eyes,  and  smiled. 
The  visionary  woman  was  taking  hold  of  her  again  with  the 
slow  grip  and  embrace  of  the  glacier. 

Rosa  came  home  to  dine,  and  at  sight  of  the  new  cos- 
tume she  cried,  "  Shade  of  Titian,  what  a  picture  !  "  During 
dinner  she  mentioned  that  she  had  met  Mr.  Drake,  who 
had  said  that  the  Prince  was  likely  to  be  pi-esent  at  the  pro- 
duction, having  asked  for  the  date  and  other  particulars. 

"  But  haven't  you  heard  the  great  news,  dear  ?  It's  in 
all  the  late  editions  of  the  evening  papers." 


THE  DEVIL'S  ACRE.  417 

"What  is  it?"  said  GloiyT'-fe^  slie  saw  what  was 
coming'. 

"  Father  Storm  is  to  follow  Father  Damien.  That's  the 
report,  at  all  events ;  but  he  is  ex])ected  to  make  a  state- 
ment at  his  club  to-night,  and  I  have  to  be  there  for  the 
paper." 

As  goon  as  dinner  was  over  Rosa  went  off  to  Soho,  and 
then  Glory  was  brought  back  with  a  shock  to  the  agony  of 
her  inward  struggle.  She  knew  that  her  hour  had  arrived, 
and  that  on  her  action  now  everything  depended.  She 
knew  that  she  could  never  break  the  chains  by  which  the 
world  and  her  profession  held  her.  She  knew  that  the 
other  woman  had  come,  that  she  must  go  with  her,  and  go 
for  good.  But  the  renunciation  of  love  was  terrible.  The 
day  had  been  soft  and  beautiful.  It  was  falling  asleep  and 
yawning  now,  with  a  drowsy  breeze  that  shook  the  yellow 
leaves  as  they  hung  withered  and  closed  on  the  thinning 
boughs  like  the  fingers  of  an  old  maid's  hand.  She  was  sit- 
ting at  the  desk  by  the  window,  trying  to  write  a  letter. 
More  than  once  she  tore  up  the  sheet,  dried  her  eyes,  and 
began  again.     What  she  wrote  last  was  this  : 

"  It  is  impossible,  dear  John.  I  can  not  go  with  you  to 
the  South  Seas.  I  have  struggled,  but  I  can  not,  I  can  not ! 
It  is  the  greatest,  noblest,  sublimest  mission  in  the  world, 
but  I  am  not  the  woman  for  these  high  tasks.  I  should  be 
only  a  fruitless  fig  ti^ee,  a  sham,  a  hypocrite.  It  would  be  like 
taking  a  dead  body  with  you  to  take  me,  for  my  heart  would 
not  be  there.  You  would  find  that  out,  dear,  and  I  should 
be  ashamed. 

"  x^nd  then  I  can  not  leave  this  life — I  can  not  give  up 
London.  I  am  like  a  child — I  like  the  bustling  streets,  the 
brilliant  thoroughfares,  the  crowds,  the  bands  of  music,  the 
lights  at  night,  and  the  sense  of  life.  I  like  to  succeed,  too, 
and  to  be  admired,  and — yes,  to  hear  the  clapping  of  hands 
in  a  theatre.  You  are  above  all  this,  and  can  look  down  at 
it  as  dross,  and  I  like  you  for  that  also.  But  give  it  all  up  I 
can't ;  I  haven't  the  strength  ;  it  is  in  my  blood,  dear,  and  if 
I  part  from  it  I  must  die. 

"  And  then  I  like  to  be  fondled  and  coaxed  and  ki.ssed, 
and  I  want  so  much — oh,  so  much  to  be  loved !    I  want 


418  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

somebody  to  tell  me  every  day  and  always  how  much  he 
loves  me,  and  to  praise  me  and  pet  me  and  forget  every- 
thing else  for  me,  everything,  everything,  even  his  own  soul 
and  salvation  !  You  can  not  do  that ;  it  would  be  sinful,  and 
besides  it  wouldn't  be  love  as  you  understand  it,  and  as  it 
ought  to  be,  if  you  are  to  go  out  to  that  solemn  and  awful 
task. 

"  When  I  said  I  loved  you  I  spoke  the  truth,  dear,  and 
yet  I  didn't  know  what  the  word  meant  really,  I  didnt 
realize  everything.  I  love  you  still — with  all  my  heart  and 
soul  I  love  you  ;  but  now  I  know  that  there  is  a  difference 
between  us,  that  we  can  never  come  together.  No,  I  can 
not  reach  up  to  your  austere  heights.  I  am  so  weak ;  you 
are  so  strong.  Your  '  strength  is  as  the  strength  of  ten  be- 
cause your  heart  is  pure,'  while  I 

"  I  am  unworthy  of  your  thoughts,  John.  Leave  me  to 
the  life  I  have  chosen.  It  may  be  poor  and  vain  and  worth- 
less, but  it  is  the  only  life  I'm  fit  for.  And  yet  I  love  you — 
and  you  loved  me.  I  suppose  God  makes  men  and  women 
like  that  sometimes,  and  it  is  no  use  struggling. 

"  One  kiss,  dear— it  is  the  last." 


XVIII. 

John  Storm  went  back  to  Victoria  Square  with  a  bright 
and  joyful  face  and  found  Mrs.  Callender  waiting  for  him, 
grim  as  a  judge.  He  could  see  that  her  eyes  were  large 
and  red  with  weeping,  but  she  fell  on  him  instantly  witli 
witliering  scorn. 

"  So  you're  here  at  last,  are  ye  ?  A  pretty  senseless  thing 
this  is,  to  be  sure  !  What  are  you  dreaming  about  ?  Are 
you  bewitched  or  what  ?  Do  you  suppose  things  can  be 
broken  off  in  this  way  ?  You  to  go  to  the  leper  islands 
indeed ! " 

"  I'm  called,  auntie,  and  when  God  calls  a  man,  what 
can  he  do  but  answer  with  Samuel " 

"Tut!  Don't  talk  sic  nonsense.  Besides,  Samuel  had 
some  sense.  He  waited  to  be  called  three  times,  and  I 
havena  heard  this  is  your  third  time  of  callino-." 


TEE  DEVIL'S  ACRE.  419 

John  Storm  laughed,  and  that  provoked  her  to  towering 
indignation.  ''  Good  God,  what  are  you  thinking  of,  man  ? 
There's  that  puir  lassie — you're  running  away  from  her,  too, 
aren't  you  ?  It's  shameful,  it's  disgraceful,  it's  unprincipled, 
and  you  to  do  it  too  !  " 

"  You  needn't  trouble  about  that,  auntie,"  said  John  r 
"she  is  going  with  me." 

"  What  ?  "  cried  Mrs.  Callender,  and  her  face  expressed 
boundless  astonishment. 

"  Yes,"  said  John,  "  yovi  women  are  brimful  of  courage, 
God  bless  you  !  and  she's  the  bravest  of  you  all." 

"  But  you'll  no  have  the  assurance  to  tak'  that  puir  bit 
lassie  to  yonder  God-forsaken  spot  ? " 

"  She  wants  to  go — at  least  she  wants  to  leave  London." 

"  What  does  she  ?  Weel,  weel !  But  didn't  I  say  she 
was  nought  but  one  of  your  Sisters  or  sic-like  ?— And 
you're  going  to  let  a  slip  of  a  girl  tak'  you  away  frae 
your  ain  work  and  your  ain  duty — and  you  call  yourself 
a  man ! " 

He  began  to  coax  and  appease  her,  and  before  long 
the  grim  old  face  was  struggling  between  smiles  and  tears. 

"  Tut !  get  along  wi'  ye  !  I've  a  great  mind,  though — I'd 
be  liking  fine  to  see  her  anyway.  Now,  where  does  she 
bide  in  London  ? " 

"  Why  do  you  want  to  know  that,  auntie  ? " 

"  What's  it  to  you,  laddie  ?  Can't  a  body  call  to  say 
'  Good-bye '  to  a  lassie,  and  tak'  her  a  wee  present  before 
going  away,  without  asking  a  man's  pei-mission  ? " 

"  I  shouldn't  do  it,  though,  if  I  were  you." 

"  And  why  not,  pray  ? " 

"Because  she's  as  bright  as  a  star  and  as  quick  as  a  dia- 
mond, and  she'd  see  through  you  in  a  twinkling.  Besides, 
I  shouldn't  advise " 

"  Keep  your  advice  like  your  salt  till  you're  asked  for  it, 
my  man — and  to  think  of  any  reasonable  body  giving  up 
his  work  in  London  for  that — that " 

"  Good  men  have^gone  out  to  the  mission  field,  auntie." 

"  Mission  fiddlesticks  !  Just  a  barber's  chair,  fit  for  every 
comer." 

"And  then  this  isn't  the  mission  field  exactly  either." 


420 


THE   CHRISTIAN. 


"Mair's  the.  pity,  and  then  jou  wouldna  be  running 
bull-neck  on  your  death  before  your  time." 

"None  of  us  can  do  that,  auntie,  for  heaven  is  over  all." 

"High  words  off  an  empty  stomach,  my  man,  so  you  can 
just  keep  them  to  cool  your  parridge.  But  oh,  dear— oh, 
dear  1  You'll  forget  your  puir  auld  Jane  Callender,  any- 
way." 

"  Never,  auntie  I  " 

"  Tut !  don't  tell  me  !  " 

"  Never ! " 

"  It's  the  last  I'm  to  see  of  you,  laddie.  I'm  knowing 
that  fine — and  me  that  fond  of  you  too,  and  looking  on  you 
as  my  ain  son." 

"Come,  auntie,  come  ;  you  mustn't  take  it  so  seriously." 

"  And  to  think  a  bit  thing  like  that  can  make  all  this 
botherment ! " 

"  Nay,  it's  my  own  doing — absolutely  mine." 

"  Aye,  aye,  man's  the  head,  but  woman  tunis  it." 

They  dined  togetlier  and  then  got  into  the  carriage  for 
Soho.  John  talked  continually,  with  an  impetuous  rush  of 
enthusiasm  ;  but  the  old  lady  sat  in  gloomy  silence,  broken 
only  by  a  sigh.  At  the  corner  of  Downing  Street  he  got 
out  to  call  on  the  Prime  Minister,  and  sent  the  carriage  on 
to  the  clergy-house. 

A  newsboy  going  down  Whitehall  was  calling  an  even- 
ing paper.  John  bought  a  copy,  and  the  first  thing  his  eye 
fell  upon  was  the  mention  of  his  own  name :  "  The  an- 
nouncement in  another  column  that  Father  Storm  of  Soho 
intends  to  take  up  the  work  which  the  heroic  Father  Damien 
has  ju.st  laid  down  will  be  received  by  the  public  with  min- 
gled joy  and  regret — joy  at  the  splendid  heroism  which 
prompts  so  noble  a  resolve,  regret  at  the  loss  which  the 
Church  in  London  will  sustain  by  the  removal  of  a  clergy- 
man of  so  much  courage,  devotion,  independence,  and  self- 
sacrifice.  .  .  .  That  the  son  of  a  peer  and  heir  to  an  earldom 
should  voluntarily  take  up  a  life  of  poverty  in  Soho,  one  of 
the  most  crowded,  criminal,  and  neglected  corners  of  Chris- 
tendom, wjus  a  fact  of  so  much  significance " 

Joliii  Storm  crushed  the  paper  in  liis  hand  and  threw  it 
into  the  street ;  but  a  few  minutes  afterward  he  saw  another 


THE   DEVIL'S   ACRE.  421 

copy  of  it  in  the  hands  of  the  Prime  Minister  as  he  came  to 
the  door  of  the  Cabinet  room  to  greet  him.  The  old  man's 
face  looked  soft,  and  his  voice  had  a  faint  tremor. 

"  I'm  afraid  you  are  bringing  me  bad  news,  John." 

John  laughed  noisily.  "  Do  I  look  like  it,  uncle  ?  Bad 
news,  indeed  !     No,  but  the  best  news  in  the  world." 

"What  is  it,  my  boy  ?  " 

"  I  am  about  to  be  married.  You've  often  told  me  I  ought 
to  be,  and  now  I'm  going  to  act  on  your  advice." 

The  bleak  old  face  was  smiling.  "  Then  tlie  rvunour  I 
see  in  the  papers  isn't  true,  after  all  ? " 

"  Oh,  yes,  it's  true  enough,  and  my  wife  is  to  go  with 
me.'' 

"  But  have  you  considered  that  carefully  ?  Isn't  it  a 
terrible  demand  to  make  of  any  woman  ?  Women  are  more 
religious  than  men,  but  they  are  more  material  also.  Under 
the  heat  of  religious  impulse  a  woman  is  capable  of  saci'i- 
fices — great  sacrifices — but  when  it  has  cooled " 

"  No  fear  of  that,  uncle,"  said  John  ;  and  then  he  told  the 
Prime  Minister  what  he  had  told  Mrs.  Callender — that  it  was 
Glory's  proposal  that  they  should  leave  London,  and  that 
without  this  suggestion  he  might  not  have  thought  of  his 
present  enterprise.  The  bleak  face  kept  smiling,  but  tlie 
Prime  Minister  was  asking  himself :  "  What  does  this  mean  ? 
Has  slie  her  oivn  reasons  for  wishing  to  go  away  ? " 

"  Do  you  know,  my  boy,  that  with  all  this  talk  you've 
not  yet  told  me  who  she  is  ?  " 

John  told  him,  and  then  a  faint  and  far-off  rumour  out 
of  another  world  seemed  to  flit  across  his  memory. 

"  An  actress  at  present,  you  say  ?  " 

"  So  to  speak,  but  ready  to  give  up  everything  for  this 
glorious  mission." 

"  Very  brave,  no  doubt,  very  beautiful ;  but  what  of  your 
present  responsibilities — your  responsibilities  in  London  ?  " 

"That's  just  what  I  came  to  speak  about,"  said  John; 
and  then  his  rapturous  face  straightened,  and  he  made  some 
effort  to  plunge  into  the  practical  aspect  of  his  affairs  at 
Soho.  There  was  his  club  for  girls  and  his  home  for  chil- 
dren. They  were  to  be  turned  out  of  tlie  clergy-house  to- 
morrow, and  he  had  taken  a  shelter  at  Westmin.ster.    But 


422 


THE  CHRISTIAN. 


the  means  to  support  them  were  still  deficient,  and  if  there 
was  anything  coming  to  him  that  would  suffice  for  that  pur- 
pose—if there  was  enough  left— if  his  mother's  money  was 
not  all  gone " 

The  Prime  Minister  was  looking  into  John's  face,  w^atch- 
ing  the  play  of  his  features,  but  hardly  listening  to  what  he 
said.  '•  wiiat  does  this  mean  ? "  he  was  asking  himself,  in 
the  old  habitual  way  of  the  man  whose  business  it  is  to  read 
the  motives  that  are  not  revealed. 

"  So  3'ou  are  willing  to  leave  London,  after  all,  John  ? " 

"  Why  not,  uncle  ?  London  is  nothing  to  me  in  itself, 
less  than  nothing  ;  and  if  that  brave  girl  to  whom  it  is  every- 
thing  " 

"  And  yet  six  months  ago  I  gave  you  the  opportunity  of 
doing  so,  and  then " 

"  Then  my  head  was  full  of  dreams,  sir.  Thank  God, 
they  are  gone  now,  and  I  am  awake  at  last !  " 

"  But  the  Church — I  thought  your  duty  and  devotion  to 
the  Church " 

"The  Church  is  a  chaos,  uncle,  a  wreck  of  fragments 
without  unity,  principle,  or  life.  No  man  can  find  foothold 
in  it  now  without  accommodating  his  duty  and  his  loyalty 
to  his  chances  of  a  livelihood.  It  is  a  career,  not  a  crusade. 
Once  I  imagined  that  a  man  might  live  as  a  protest  against 
all  this,  but  it  was  a  dream,  a  vain  and  presumptuous 
dream." 

"  And  then  your  woman  movement " 

"Another  dream,  uncle!  A  whole  standing  army  mar- 
shalled and  equipped  to  do  battle  against  the  world's  sins 
toward  woman  could  never  hope  for  victory.  Why  ?  Be- 
cause the  enemy  is  ourselves,  and  only  God  can  contend 
against  a  foe  like  that.  He  will,  too !  For  the  wrongs  in- 
flicted on  woman  by  this  wicked  and  immoral  Loudon  God 
will  visit  it  with  his  vengeance  yet.  I  see  it  coming,  it  is 
not  far  off,  and  God  help  those " 

"  But  surely,  my  boj',  surely  it  is  not  necessary  to  fly 
away  from  the  world  in  oi'der  to  escape  from  your  dreams  ? 
Just  when  it  is  going  to  be  good  to  you,  too.  It  was  kick- 
ing and  cuffing  and  laughing  at  you  only  yesterday " 

"  And  to-morrow  it  would  kick  and  cufT  and  laugh  at  me 


THE  DEVIL'S  ACRE.  423 

again.  Oh,  it  is  a  cowardly  and  contemptible  world,  uncle, 
and  happy  is  the  man  who  wants  nothing  of  it !  He  is  its 
master,  its  absolute  master,  and  everybody  else  is  its  wretched 
slave.  Tliink  of  the  people  who  are  scrambling  for  fame  and 
titles  and  decorations  and  invitations  to  court !  They'll  all 
be  in  their  six  feet  by  two  feet  some  day.  And  then  think  of 
the  rich  men  who  hire  detectives  to  watch  over  their  children 
lest  they  should  be  stolen  for  sake  of  a  ransom,  while  they 
themselves,  like  human  mill-horses,  go  tramping  round  and 
round  the  safes  which  contain  their  securities !  Oh,  miser- 
able delusion,  to  think  that  because  a  nation  is  rich  it  is 
therefore  great !  Once  I  thought  the  Church  was  a  refuge 
from  this  worst  of  tlie  spiritual  dangers  of  the  age,  and  so  it 
would  have  been  if  it  had  been  built  on  the  Gospel.  But  it 
isn't ;  it  loves  the  thrones  of  the  world  and  bows  down  to 
' the  golden  calf.  Poverty!  Give  me  poverty  and  let  me  re- 
nounce everything.  Jesus,  our  blessed  Jesus,  he  knew  well 
what  he  was  doing  in  choosing  to  be  poor,  and  even  as  a 
man  he  was  the  greatest  being  that  ever  trod  upon  the 
earth." 

''  But  this  leper  island  mission  is  not  poverty  merely,  my 
dear  John — it  is  death,  certain  death,  sooner  or  later,  and 
God  knows  what  news  the  next  mail  may  bring  us  ! " 

"  As  to  that  I  feel  I  am  in  God's  hands,  sir,  and  he  knows 
best  what  is  good  for  us.  People  talk  about  dying  before  their 
time,  but  no  man  ever  did  or  ever  will  or  ever  can  do  so, 
and  it  is  blasphemy  to  think  of  it.  Then  which  of  us  can 
prolong  our  lives  by  one  day  or  hour  or  minute  ?  But  God 
can  do  everything.  And  what  a  gi'and  inspiration  to  trust 
yourself  absolutely  to  him,  to  raise  the  arms  heavenward 
which  the  world  would  pinion  to  your  side  and  cry,  '  Do 
with  me  as  thovi  wilt,  I  am  ready  for  anything — anything.'  " 

A  tremor  passed  over  the  wi'inkles  about  the  old  man's 
eyes,  and  he  thought :  "  All  this  is  self-deception.  He  doesn't 
believe  a  word  of  it.  Poor  boy  !  his  heart  alone  is  leading 
him,  and  he  is  the  worst  slave  of  us  all." 

Then  he  said  aloud  :  "Things  haven't  fallen  out  as  I  ex- 
pected, John,  and  I  am  sorry,  very  sorry.  The  laws  of  life 
and  the  laws  of  love  don't  always  run  together — I  know  that 
quite  well.'' 


424  THE   CHRISTIAN. 

John  flinched,  but  made  no  protest. 

"  I  shall  feel  as  if  I  were  losing  your  mother  a  second 
time  when  you  leave  me,  my  boy.  To  tell  you  the  truth, 
I've  been  watching  you  and  thinking  of  you,  though  you 
haven't  known  it.  And  you've  rather  neglected  the  old 
man.  I  thought  you  might  bring  your  wife  to  me  some 
day,  and  that  I  might  live  to  see  your  children.  But  that's 
all  over  now,  and  there  seems  to  be  no  help  for  it.  They  say 
the  most  noble  and  beautiful  things  in  the  world  are  done 

in  a  state  of  fever,  and  perhaps  this  fever  of  yours H'm  ! 

As  for  the  money,  it  is  ready  for  you  at  any  time." 

''  There  can't  be  mucli  left,  uncle.  I  have  gone  through 
most  of  it." 

"  No,  John,  no  ;  the  money  you  spent  was  my  money— 
your  own  is  still  untouched." 

"  You  are  too  good,  uncle,  and  if  I  had  once  thought  you 
wished  to  see  more  of  me " 

"  Ah,  I  know,  I  know.  It  was  a  wise  man  who  said  it 
was  hard  to  love  a  woman  and  do  anything  else,  even  to 
love  God  himself." 

John  dropped  his  head  and  turned  to  go. 

"  But  come  again  before  you  leave  London— if  you  do 
leave  it^and  now  good-bye,  and  God  bless  you  ! " 

The  news  of  John  Storm's  intention  to  follow  Father 
Damien  had  touched  and  thrilled  the  heart  of  London,  and 
the  streets  and  courts  about  St.  Mary  Magdalene's  were 
thronged  with  people.  In  their  eyes  he  was  about  to  fulfil  a 
glorious  mission,  and  ought  to  be  encouraged  and  sustained. 
"  Good-bye,  Father  !  "  cried  one.  "  God  bless  you  !  "  cried 
another.  A  young  woman  with  timid  eyes  stretched  out 
her  hand  to  him,  and  then  everybody  attemjited  to  do  the 
same.  He  tried  to  answer  cheerfully,  but  was  conscious  that 
his  throat  was  thick  and  his  voice  was  husky.  Mrs.  Pincher 
was  at  the  door  of  the  clergy -house,  crying  openly  and  wip- 
ing her  eyes.  "  Ain't  there  lepers  enough  in  London,  sir, 
without  goin'  to  the  ends  of  the  earth  for  'em  ? "  He  laughed 
and  made  an  effort  to  answer  her  humorously,  but  for  some 
reason  both  words  and  ideas  failed  him. 

The  club-room  was  crowded,  and  among  the  girls  and 
tlie  Sisters  there  were  .several  strange  faces.     Mrs.  Callender 


THE  DEVIL'S  ACRE.  425 

sat  at  one  end  of  tlie  little  platform,  and  she  was  glowering 
across  at  the  other  end,  where  the  Father  Superior  stood  in 
his  black  cassock,  quiet  and  watchful,  and  with  the  sprawl- 
ing, smiling  face  of  Brother  xVndrew  by  his  side.  The  girls 
were  singing  when  John  entered,  and  their  voices  swelled 
out  as  they  saw  him  pushing  his  way  through.  When 
the  hymn  ended  there  was  silence  for  a  moment  as  if  it 
was  expected  that  he  would  speak,  but  he  did  not  rise,  and 
tlie  lady  at  the  harmonium  began  again.  Some  of  the 
young  mothers  from  the  shelter  above  had  brought  down 
their  little  ones,  and  the  thin,  tuneless  voices  could  be  heard 
among  the  rest: 

There's  a  Friend  for  Utile  children 
Above  the  bright  blue  sky. 

John  had  made  a  brave  fight  for  it,  but  he  was  beginning 
to  break  down.  Everybody  else  had  risen,  he  could  not  rise. 
An  expression  of  fear  and  at  the  same  time  of  shame  had 
come  into  his  face.  Vaguely,  half -consciously,  half -reproach- 
fully, he  began  to  i*eview  the  situation.  After  all,  he  was 
deserting  his  post,  he  was  running  away.  This  was  his  true 
scene,  his  true  woi'k,  and  if  he  turned  his  back  upon  it  he 
would  be  pursued  by  eternal  regrets.  And  yet  he  must 
go,  he  must  leave  everything — that  alone  he  understood 
and  felt. 

All  at  once,  God  knows  why,  he  began  to  think  of  some- 
thing which  had  happened  when  he  was  a  boy.  With  his 
father  he  was  crossing  the  Duddon  Sands.  The  tide  was 
out,  far  out,  but  it  liad  turned,  it  was  galloping  toward 
them,  and  they  could  hear  the  champing  waves  on  the 
beach  behind.  "  Run,  boy,  run !  Give  me  your  hand  and 
run ! " 

Then  he  resvimed  the  current  of  his  former  thoughts. 
"  What  was  I  thinking  about  ? "  lie  asked  himself ;  and 
when  he  remembered,  he  thought,  "  I  will  give  my  hand 
to  the  heavenly  Father  and  go  on  without  fear."  At  the 
second  verse  he  rallied,  rose  to  his  feet,  and  joined  in  the 
singing.  It  was  said  afterward  that  his  deep  voice  rang  out 
above  all  the  other  voices,  and  that  he  sang  in  rapid  and 
irregular  time,  going  faster  and  faster  at  every  line. 


426 


THE  CHRISTIAN. 


They  had  reached  the  last  verse  but  one,  when  he  saw  a 
young  girl  crushing  her  way  toward  him  with  a  letter.  She 
was  smiling,  and  seemed  proud  to  render  him  this  service. 
He  was  about  to  lay  the  letter  aside  when  he  glanced  at  it, 
and  then  he  could  not  put  it  down.  It  was  marked 
"Urgent,"  and  the  address  was  in  Glory's  handwriting. 
The  champing  waves  were  in  his  ears  again.  They  were 
coming  on  and  on. 

A  presentiment  of  evil  crept  over  him  and  he  opened  the 
letter  and  read  it.  Then  his  life  fell  to  wreck  in  a  moment. 
Its  nullity,  its  hopelessness,  its  futility,  its  folly,  the  world 
with  its  elusive  joj's,  love  with  its  deceptions  so  cruel  and  so 
sweet — all,  all  came  sweeping  up  on  him  like  the  sea- wrack 
out  of  a  storm.  In  an  instant  the  truth  apjieared  to  him, 
and  he  understood  himself  at  last.  For  Glory's  sake  he 
had  sacrificed  everything  and  deceived  himself  before  God 
and  man.  And  yet  she  had  failed  him  and  forsaken  him, 
and  slipped  out  of  his  hands  in  the  end.  The  tide  had 
overtaken  and  surrounded  him,  and  the  voices  of  the 
girls  and  the  children  were  like  the  roar  of  the  waters  in 
his  ears. 

But  what  was  this  ?  Why  had  they  stopped  singing  ? 
All  at  once  he  became  aware  that  everybody  else  was  seated, 
and  that  he  was  standing  alone  on  the  edge  of  the  platform 
with  Glory's  letter  in  his  hand. 

"  Hush  !  hush  ! "  There  was  a  strained  silence,  and  lie 
tried  to  recollect  what  it  was  that  he  was  expected  to  do. 
Every  eye  was  on  his  face.  Some  of  the  strangers  opened 
note-books  and  sat  ready  to  write.  Then,  coming  to  himself, 
he  understood  what  was  before  liim,  and  tried  to  control  his 
voice  and  begin. 

"Girls,"  he  said,  but  he  was  hardly  able  to  speak  or 
breathe.  "  Girls,"  lie  said  again,  but  his  strong  voice  shook, 
and  he  tried  in  vain  to  go  on. 

One  of  the  girls  began  to  sob.  Then  another  and  an- 
other. It  was  said  afterward  that  nobody  could  look  on  his 
drawn  face,  so  hopeless,  so  full  of  the  traces  of  sutforing  and 
bitter  sadness,  without  wanting  to  cry  aloud.  But  he  con- 
trolled liimself  at  lengtli. 

"  My  good  friends  all,  you  came  to-night  to  bid  me  God- 


THE   DEVIL'S   ACRE.  427 

speed  on  a  long  journey  and  I  came  to  bid  you  farewell. 
But  there  is  a  higher  power  that  rules  our  actions,  and  it  is 
little  we  know  of  our  own  future,  or  our  fate  or  ourselves. 
God  bids  me  tell  you  that  my  leper  island  is  to  be  London, 
and  that  my  work  among  you  is  not  done  yet." 

After  saying  this  he  stood  a  moment  as  if  intending  to 
say  more,  but  he  said  nothing.  The  letter  crinkled  in  his 
fingers,  he  looked  at  it,  an  expression  of  helplessness  came 
into  his  face,  and  he  sat  down.  And  then  the  Father  came 
up  to  him  and  sat  beside  him,  and  took  his  hand  and  com- 
forted it  as  if  he  had  been  a  little  child. 

There  was  another  attempt  to  sing,  but  the  hymn  made 
no  headway  this  time,  for  some  of  the  girls  were  crying, 
they  hardly  knew  why,  and  others  were  whispering,  and 
the  strangers  were  leaving  the  room.  Two  ladies  were 
going  down  the  stairs. 

"  I  felt  sure  he  wouldn't  go,"  said  one. 

"  Why  so  ? "  said  the  other. 

"  I  can't  tell  you.     I  had  my  private  reasons." 

It  was  Rosa  Maequarrie.  Going  down  the  dark  lane  she 
came  upon  a  woman  who  had  haunted  the  outside  of  the 
building  during  the  past  half  hour,  apparently  thinking  at 
one  moment  of  entering  and  at  the  next  of  going  away. 
The  woman  hurriedly  lowered  her  veil  as  Rosa  approached 
her,  but  she  was  too  late  to  avoid  recognition. 

"  Glory  !     Is  it  you  ?  " 

Glory  covered  her  face  with  her  hands  and  sobbed. 

"  Whatever  are  you  doing  here  ? " 

"  Don't  ask  me,  Rosa.  Oh,  I'm  a  lost  woman !  Lord  for- 
give me,  what  have  I  done  ? " 

"  My  poor  child  ! " 

"Take  me  home,  Rosa.  And  don't  leave  me  to-night, 
dear — not  to-night,  Rosa." 

And  Rosa  took  her  by  the  arm  and  led  her  back  to 
Clement's  Inn. 

Next  morning  before  daybreak  the  brothers  of  the  So- 
ciety of  the  Holy  Gethsemane  had  gathered  in  their  church 
in  Bishopsgate  Street  for  Lauds  and  Prime.  Only  the  chan- 
cel was  lighted  up,  the  rest  of  the  church  was  dark,  but  the 
first  gleams  of  dawn  were  now  struggling  through  the  east- 


428  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

em  window  against  the  candlelight  on  the  altar  and  the 
gaslight  on  the  choir. 

John  Storm  was  standing  on  the  altar  steps  and  the 
Father  was  hy  his  side.  He  was  wearing  the  cassock  of  the 
Brotlierhood,  and  the  cord  with  the  three  knots  was  bound 
about  his  waist.  All  was  silent  round  about,  the  city  was 
still  asleep,  the  current  of  life  had  not  yet  awakened  for  the 
day.  Lauds  and  Prime  were  over,  the  brothers  were  on 
their  knees,  and  the  Father  was  reading  the  last  words  of 
the  dedication  service. 

"  Amen  !    Amen  ! " 

There  was  a  stroke  of  the  bell  overhead,  a  door  some- 
whex'e  was  loudly  slammed,  and  then  the  organ  began  to 
play  : 

Holy,  Holy,  Holy,  Lord  God  Almighty. 

The  brothers  rose  and  sang,  their  voices  filled  the  dark 
place,  and  the  quivering  sounds  of  the  organ  swelled  up  to 
the  unseen  roof. 

Holy,  Holy,  Holy !    Merciful  and  Mighty, 
God  in  Three  Persons,  Blessed  Trinity ! 

The  Father's  cheeks  were  moist,  but  his  eyes  were  shin- 
ing and  his  face  was  full  of  a  great  joy.  John  Storm  was 
standing  with  bowed  head.  He  had  made  the  vows  of  pov- 
erty, chastity,  and  obedience,  and  sux'rendered  his  life  to 
God. 


FOURTH   BOOK. 

SANCTUARY. 


Six  months  passed,  and  a  panic  terror  had  seized  London, 
It  was  one  of  those  epidemic  frenzies  which  have  fallen 
upon  great  cities  in  former  ages  of  the  world.  The  public 
mind  was  filled  with  the  idea  that  London  was  threatened 
with  a  serious  danger;  that  it  was  verging  on  an  awful 
crisis  ;  that  it  was  about  to  be  destroyed. 

The  signs  were  such  as  have  usually  been  considered 
prepai'atory  to  the  second  coming  of  the  Messiah — a  shock 
of  earthquake  which  threw  down  a  tottering  chimney 
(somewhere  in  Soho),  and  the  expected  appearance  of  a 
comet.  But  this  was  not  to  be  the  second  Advent ;  it  was 
to  be  a  disaster  confined  to  London. 

God  was  about  to  punish  London  for  its  sins.  The  dis- 
honour lay  at  its  door  of  being  the  wickedest  city  in  the 
world.  Side  by  side  with  the  development  of  mechanical 
science  lifting  men  to  the  power  and  position  of  angels, 
there  was  a  moral  degeneration  degrading  them  to  the 
level  of  beasts.  With  an  apparent  aspiration  after  social 
and  humanitarian  reform,  there  was  a  corruption  of  the 
public  conscience  and  a  hardening  of  the  i:)ublic  heart. 
London  was  the  living  picture  of  this  startling  contrast. 
Impiety,  iniquity,  impurity,  and  injustice  were  at  their 
height  here,  and  either  England  must  forfeit  her  position 
among  the  nations,  or  the  Almighty  would  interpose.  The 
Almighty  was  about  to  interpose,  and  the  consummation  of 
London's  wickedness  was  near. 

By  what  means  the  destruction  of  London  would  come 

429 


430 


THE  CHRISTIAX. 


to  pass  was  a  matter  on  which  there  were  many  theories, 
and  the  fear  and  consternation  of  the  people  took  various 
shapes.  One  of  them  was  that  of  a  mightjt  earthquake,  in 
which  the  dome  of  St.  Paul's  was  to  totter  and  the  to  were 
of  Westminster  Abbey  to  rock  and  fall  amid  clouds  of  dust. 
Another  was  that  of  an  avenging  fire,  in  which  the  gi^eat 
city  was  to  light  up  the  whole  face  of  Europe  and  burn  to 
ashes  as  a  witness  of  God's  wrath  at  the  sins  of  men,  A  third 
was  that  of  a  flood,  in  which  the  Thames  was  to  rise  and 
submerge  the  city,  and  tens  of  thousands  of  houses  and  hun- 
dreds of  thousands  of  persons  were  to  be  washed  away  and 
destroyed. 

Concerning  the  time  of  the  event,  the  popular  imagina- 
tion had  attained  to  a  more  definite  idea.  It  was  to  occur 
on  the  great  day  of  the  Epsom  races.  Derby  Day  was  the 
national  day.  More  than  any  day  associated  with  political 
independence,  or  with  victory  in  battle,  or  yet  with  reli- 
gious sanctity,  the  day  devoted  to  sport  and  gambling  and 
intemperance  and  immorality  was  England's  day.  There- 
fore the  Almighty  had  selected  that  day  for  the  awful 
revelation  by  which  he  would  make  his  power  known  to 
man. 

Thus  the  heart  of  London  was  once  more  stormed,  and 
shame  and  panic  ran  through  it  like  an  epidemic.  The 
consequences  were  the  usual  ones.  In  vain  the  newspapers 
published  articles  in  derision  of  the  madness,  with  accounts 
of  similar  frenzies  which  had  laid  hold  of  London  before. 
There  was  a  run  on  the  banks,  men  sold  their  businesses, 
dissolved  their  partnerships,  transferred  their  stocks,  and 
removed  to  houses  outside  the  suburbs.  Great  losses  were 
sustaijied  in  all  ranks  of  society,  and  the  only  class  known 
to  escape  were  the  Jews  on  the  Exchange,  who  held  their 
peace  and  profited  by  their  infidelity. 

^hen  people  asked  themselves  who  the  author  and 
origin  of  the  panic  was  they  thought  instantly  and  with 
one  accord  of  a  dark-eyed,  lonely  man,  who  walked  the 
streets  of  Loudon  in  the  black  cassock  of  a  monk,  with  the 
cord  and  three  knots  which  wore  the  witness  of  life  vows. 
No  dress  could  have  shown  to  better  advantage  his  dark- 
brown  face  and  tall  figure.     Something  majestic  seemed  to 


SANCTUARY.  431 

hang  about  the  man.  His  big  lustrous  eyes,  his  faint  smile 
with  its  sad  expi^ession  always  behind  it,  his  silence,  his  re- 
serve, his  burning  eloquence  when  he  pi'eached — seemed  to 
lay  siege  to  the  imagination  of  the  populace,  and  especially 
to  take  hold  as  with  a  fiery  grip  of  the  impassioned  souls  of 
women. 

A  certain  mystery  about  his  life  did  much  to  help  this 
extraordinar}'  fascination.  When  London  as  a  whole  be- 
came conscious  of  him  it  was  understood  that  he  was  in 
some  sort  a  nobleman  as  well  as  a  priest,  and  had  renounced 
the  pleasures  and  possessions  of  the  world  and  given  up  all 
for  God.  His  life  was  devoted  to  the  poor  and  outcast, 
especially  to  the  Magdalenes  and  their  unhappy  children. 
Although  a  detached  monk  still  and  living  in  obedience  to 
the  rule  of  one  of  the  monastic  brotherhoods  of  the  Angli- 
can Church,  he  was  also  vicar  of  a  parish  in  Westminster. 
His  church  was  a  centre  of  religious  life  in  that  abandoned 
district,  having  no  fewer  than  thirty  parochial  organiza- 
tions connected  with  it,  including  guilds,  clubs,  temperance 
societies,  savings  banks,  and,  above  all,  shelters  and  orphan- 
ages for  the  girls  and  their  little  ones,  who  were  the  vicar's 
especial  care. 

His  chief  helpers  were  a  company  of  devoted  women, 
drawn  mainly  from  the  fashionable  fringe  which  skirted 
his  squalid  district  and  banded  together  as  a  Sisterhood. 
For  clerical  help  he  depended  entirely  on  the  brothers  of 
his  society,  and  the  money  saved  by  these  voluntary  agen- 
cies he  distributed  among  the  poor,  the  sick,  and  the  unfor- 
tunate. Money  of  his  own  he  had  none,  and  his  purse  was 
always  empty  by  reason  of  his  free-handedness.  Rumour 
spoke  of  a  fortune  of  many  thousands  which  had  been 
rspent  wholly  on  others  in  the  building  or  maintenance  of 
ischool  and  hospital,  shelter  and  refuge.  He  lived  a  life  of 
more  than  Christian  simplicity,  and  was  seen  to  treat  him- 
self with  constant  disregard  of  comfort  and  convenience. 
His  only  home  was  two  rooms  (formerly  assigned  to  the 
choir)  on  the  ground  floor  under  his  chui'ch,  and  it  was 
understood  that  he  slept  on  a  hospital  bed,  wrapped  in  the 
cloak  w^hich  in  winter  he  wore  over  his  cassock.  His  per- 
sonal seiwant  in  these  cell-like  quai'ters  was  a  lay  bi'other 


432 


o 


THE  CHRISTIAN. 


from  his  society— a  big  ungainly  boy  with  sprawling  fea- 
tures who  served  him  and  loved  him  and  looked  up  to  hini 
■with,  the  devotion  of  a  dog.  A  dog  of  other  kind  he  had 
also~a  bloodhound,  whose  affection  for  him  was  a  terror 
to  all  who  awakened  its  jealousy  or  provoked  its  master's 
wrath.  People  said  he  had  learned  renunciation  and  was 
the  most  Christlike  man  they  had  ever  known.  He  was 
called  "  The  Father." 

Such  was  the  man  with  whom  the  popular  imagination 
associated  the  idea  of  the  panic,  but  what  specific  ground 
there  was  for  laying  upon  him  the  responsibility  of  the  pre- 
cise predictions  which  led  to  it  none  could  rightly  say. 
It  was  remembered  afterward  that  every  new  folly  had 
been  ascribed  to  him.  "  The  Father  says  so  and  so,'"  or 
"  The  Father  says  such  and  such  will  come  to  pass,"'  and 
then  came  prophecies  which  were  the  remotest  from  his 
thoughts.  No  matter  how  wild  or  extravagant  the  asser- 
tion, if  it  was  laid  upon  him  there  were  people  ready  to  be- 
lieve it,  so  deep  was  the  impression  made  on  the  public 
mind  by  this  priest  in  the  black  cassock  with  the  blood- 
hound at  his  heels,  so  strong  was  the  assurance  that  he  was 
a  man  with  the  breath  of  God  in  him. 

What  was  known  with  certainty  was  that  the  Father 
preached  against  the  impurities  and  injustices  of  the  age 
with  a  vehemence  never  heard  before,  and  that  when  he 
spoke  of  the  wickedness  of  the  world  toward  woman,  of  the 
temptatioiis  that  were  laid  before  her — temptations  of  dress, 
of  luxury,  of  false  work  and  false  fame — and  then  of  the 
cruel  neglect  and  abandonment  of  woman  when  her  sum- 
mer had  gone  and  her  winter  had  come,  his  lips  seemed  to 
be  touched  as  by  a  live  coal  from  the  altar  and  his  eyes  to 
blaze  as  witli  Pentecostal  fire.  Cities  and  nations  which 
countenanced  and  upheld  such  corruptions  of  a  false  civili- 
zation would  be  overtaken  by  the  judgment  of  God.  That 
judgment  was  near,  it  was  imminent ;  and  but  for  the  many 
instances  in  which  the  life  of  the  rich,  the  gi*eat.  and  the 
powerful  was  redeemed  by  the  highest  vii-tue,  this  pitiful 
farce  of  a  national  existence  would  have  been  i)layed  out 
already  ;  but  for  the  good  men  still  found  in  Sodom,  the  city 
of  abominations  must  long  since  have  been  destroyed.     Peo- 


SANCTUARY.  ^^    433 

pie  there  were  to  laugh  at  these  predictions,  but  they  were 
only  throwing  cold  water  on  lime  ;  the  more  they  did  so  the 
more  it  smoked. 

Little  by  little  a  supernatural  atmosphere  gathered  about 
the  Father  as  a  man  sent  from  God.  One  day  he  visited 
a  child  who  was  sick  with  a  bad  mouth,  and  touching 
the  child's  mouth  he  said,  "  It  will  be  well  soon."  The 
child  recovei'ed  immediatelj',  and  the  idea  started  that  he 
was  a  healer.  People  waited  for  him  that  they  might  touch 
his  hand.  Sometimes  after  service  he  had  to  stand  half  an 
hour  while  the  congregation  filed  past  him.  Hard-headed 
persons,  sane  and  acute  in  other  relations  of  life,  were  heard 
to  protest  that  on  shaking  hands  with  him  an  electric  cur- 
rent passed  through  them.  Sick  people  declared  themselves 
cured  by  the  sight  of  him,  and  charlatans  sold  handkerchiefs 
on  pretence  that  he  had  blessed  them.  He  repeatedly  pro- 
tested that  it  was  not  necessary  to  touch  or  even  to  see  him. 
"  Your  faith  alone  can  make  you  whole."  But  the  frenzy 
increased,  the  people  crowded  upon  him  and  he  was  fol- 
lowed through  the  streets  for  his  blessing. 

Somebody  discovered  that  he  was  born  on  the  25th  of 
December,  and  was  just  thirty -three  years  of  age.  Then  the 
madness  reached  its  height.  A  certain  resemblance  was  ob- 
served in  his  face  and  head  to  the  traditional  head  and  face 
of  Christ,  and  it  was  the  humour  of  the  populace  to  discover 
some  mystical  relations  between  him  and  the  divine  figure. 
Hysterical  women  kissed  his  hand  and  even  hailed  him  as 
their  Saviour.  He  protested  and  remonstrated,  but  all  to  no 
purpo.se.     The  delusion  grew,  and  his  protestations  helped  it. 

As  the  day  approached  that  was  to  be  big  with  the  fate  of 
London,  his  church,  which  had  been  crowded  before,  was 
now  besieged.  He  was  understood  to  preach  the  hope  that 
in  the  calamity  to  befall  the  city  a  remnant  would  be  saved, 
as  Israel  was  saved  from  the  plagues  of  Egypt.  Thousands 
who  were  too  poor  to  leave  London  had  determined  to  spend 
the  night  of  the  fateful  day  in  the  open  air.  and  already 
they  were  going  out  into  the  fields  and  the  parks,  to  Hamp- 
stead,  Highgate,  and  Blackheath.  The  panic  was  becoming 
terrible  and  the  newspapers  were  calling  vipon  the  authori- 
ties to  intervene.     A  danger  to  the  public  peace  was  threat- 


434  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

ened,  and  the  man  who  was  chiefly  to  blame  for  it  should 
be  dealt  with  at  once.  No  matter  that  he  was  innocent 
of  active  sedition,  no  matter  that  he  was  living  a  life  de- 
voted to  religious  and  humanitarian  reforms,  no  matter 
that  his  vivid  faith,  his  trust  in  God,  and  his  obedience  to 
the  divine  will  were  like  a  light  shining  in  a  dark  place, 
no  matter  that  he  was  not  guilty  of  the  wild  extravagance 
of  the  predictions  of  his  followers — "  the  Father  "  was  a 
peril,  he  was  a  panic-maker,  and  he  should  be  arrested  and 
restrained. 

The  morning  of  Derby  Day  broke  gray  and  dull  and 
close.  It  was  one  of  those  mornings  in  summer  which  por- 
tend a  thunderstorm  and  great  heat.  In  that  atmosphere 
London  awoke  to  two  great  fevers — the  fever  of  supersti- 
tious fear  and  the  fever  of  gambling  and  sport. 


II. 

But  London  is  a  monster  with  many  hearts  ;  it  is  capable 
of  various  emotions,  and  even  at  that  feverish  time  it  was 
at  the  full  tide  of  a  sensation  of  a  different  Idnd  entirely. 
This  was  a  new  play  and  a  new  plaj'er.  The  play  Avas 
"risky"  ;  it  was  understood  to  pi'esent  the  fallen  woman  in 
her  naked  reality,  and  not  as  a  soiled  dove  or  sentimental 
plaything.  Tlie  player  was  the  actress  who  performed  this 
part.  She  was  new  to  the  stage,  and  little  was  known  of 
her,  but  it  was  whispered  that  she  had  something  in  common 
with  the  character  she  personated.  Her  success  had  been 
instantaneous :  her  photograph  was  in  the  shop  windows,  it 
liad  been  reproduced  in  the  illustrated  papers,  she  had  sat  to 
famous  artists,  and  her  portrait  in  oils  was  on  the  line  at 
Bui'lington  House. 

The  play  was  the  latest  work  of  the  Scandinavian  drama- 
tist, the  actress  was  Glory  (^uuyle. 

At  nine  o'clock  on  the  UK)rning  of  Derby  Day  Glory  was 
waiting  in  tlie  drawing-room  of  the  Garden  House,  dressed 
in  a  magnilicent  outdoor  costume  of  pale  gray  which  seemed 
to  wave  like  a  ripe  hayfield.  She  looked  paler  and  more 
nervous  than  before,  and  sometimes  she  glanced  at  the  clock 


SANCTUARY.  435 

on  the  mantelpiece  and  sometimes  looked  away  in  the  dis- 
tance before  her  while  she  drew  on  her  long  white  gloves 
and  buttoned  them.  Rosa  Macquarrie  came  upstairs  hur- 
riedly. She  was  smartly  dressed  in  black  with  red  roses 
and  looked  bright  and  brisk  and  happj". 

"  He  has  sent  Benson  with  the  carriage  to  ask  us  to  drive 
down,"'  said  Rosa.  "  Must  have  some  engagement  surely. 
Let  us  be  off,  dear.     No  time  to  lose." 

"  Sliall  I  go,  I  wonder  ?  "  said  Glorj',  with  a  strange 
gravity. 

"  Indeed  yes,  dear.  Why  not  ?  You've  not  been  in  good 
spirits  lately,  and  it  will  do  you  good.  Besides,  you  deserve 
a  holiday  after  a  six  months'  season.  And  then  it's  such  a 
great  day  for  him,  too " 

''Very  well,  I'll  go,"  said  Glory,  and  at  that  moment  a 
twitch  of  her  nervous  fingers  broke  a  button  off  one  of  tlie 
gloves.  She  drew  it  off,  threw  both  gloves  on  to  a  side 
table,  took  up  another  pair  that  lay  there,  and  followed  Rosa 
•downstairs.  An  open  carriage  was  waiting  for  them  in  the 
outer  court  of  the  inn,  and  ten  minutes  afterward  they  drew 
up  in  a  narrow  street  off  Whitehall  under  a  wide  archway 
which  opened  into  the  large  and  silent  quadrangle  leading 
to  the  principal  public  offices.  It  was  the  Home  Office ;  the 
carriage  had  come  for  Drake. 

Drake  had  seen  changes  in  his  life  too.  His  father  was 
dead  and  he  had  succeeded  to  the  baronetcy.  He  had  also 
inherited  a  racing  establishment  which  the  family  had  long 
upheld,  and  a  colt  which  had  been  entered  for  the  Derby 
nearly  three  years  ago  was  to  run  in  the  race  that  day.  Its 
name  was  Elian  Vannin,  and  it  was  not  a  favourite.  Not- 
withstanding the  change  in  his  fortunes,  Drake  still  held 
his  position  of  private  .secretary  to  the  Secretary  of  State, 
but  it  was  understood  that  he  was  shortly  to  enter  public 
life  under  the  wing  of  the  Government,  and  to  stand  for  the 
first  constituency  that  became  vacant.  Ministers  predicted 
a  career  for  him  ;  there  was  nothing  he  might  not  aspire  to, 
and  hardly  anything  he  might  not  do. 

Pai'liament  had  adjourned  in  honour  of  the  day  on  which 
the  "  Isthmian  games  "  were  celebrated,  and  the  Home  Secre- 
tary, as  leader  of  the  Lower  House,  had  said  that  horse-racing 


436  THE   CHRISTIAN. 

was  "  a  noble  and  distinguished  sport  deserving  of  a  national 
lioliday."  But  the  Minister  himself,  and  consequently  his 
secretary,  had  been  compelled  to  put  in  an  appearance  at 
their  office  for  all  that.  There  was  xu-gent  business  demand- 
ing prompt  attention. 

In  the  large  gi'een  room  of  the  Home  Office  overlooking 
the  empty  quadrangle,  the  Minister,  dressed  in  a  paddock 
coat,  received  a  deputation  of  six  clergymen.  It  included 
Archdeacon  Wealthy,  who  served  as  its  spokesman.  In  a 
rotund  voice,  strutting  a  step  and  swinging  his  glasses,  the 
Archdeacon  stated  their  case.  They  had  come,  most  reluc- 
tantly and  with  a  sense  of  pain  and  grief  and  humiliation, 
to  make  representations  about  a  brother  clergyman.  It  was 
the  notorious  Mr.  Storm — "  Father  "  Storm,  for  he  was  draw- 
ing the  people  into  the  Roman  obedience.  The  man  was 
bringing  religion  into  ridicule  and  contempt,  and  it  was  the 
duty  of  all  who  loved  their  mother  Church 

"  Pardon  me,  Mr.  Archdeacon,  we  have  nothing  to  do 
with  that,"  said  the  Minister.  "You  should  go  to  your 
Bishop.    Surely  he  is  the  proper  person " 

"  We've  been,  sir,"  said  the  Archdeacon,  and  then  fol- 
lowed an  explanation  of  the  Bishop's  powerlessness.  The 
Church  provided  no  funds  to  protect  a  Bishop  from  legal 
proceedings  in  inhibiting  a  vicar  guilty  of  this  ridiculous 
kind  of  conduct.  "  But  the  man  comes  within  the  power  of 
the  secular  authorities,  sir.  He  is  constantly  inciting  people 
to  assemble  unlawfully  to  the  danger  of  the  public  peace." 

"  How  ?    How  ? " 

"Well,  he  is  a  fanatic,  a  lunatic,  and  has  put  out  mon- 
strous and  ridiculous  predictions  about  the  destruction  of 
London,  causing  disorderly  crowds  to  a.sseuible  a]>out  his 
church.  The  thoroughfares  are  blocked,  and  people  are 
pushed  about  and  assaulted.  Indeed,  things  have  come  to 
such  a  pa.ss  that  now — to-day " 

"Pardon  me  again,  Mr.  Archdeacon,  but  this  seems  to  be 
a  simple  matter  for  the  police.  Why  didn't  you  go  to  the 
Commissioner  at  Scotland  Yard  ?" 

"  We  did,  sir,  but  he  .said— you  will  hardly  believe  it,  but 
ho  actually  alHrmed— that  as  the  man  had  been  guilty  of  no 
overt  act  of  sedition " 


SANCTUARY.  437 

"  Precisely — that  would  be  my  view  too." 

"  And  are  we,  sir,  to  wait  for  a  riot,  for  death,  for  mur- 
der, before  the  law  can  be  put  in  motion  ?  Is  there  no 
precedent  for  proceeding  before  anything  serious — I  may 
say  alarming " 

"Well,  gentlemen,"  said  the  Minister,  glancing  impa- 
tiently at  his  watch,  "  I  can  only  promise  you  that  the  mat- 
ter shall  have  proper  attention.  The  Commissioner  shall  be 
seen,  and  if  a  summons " 

"  It  is  too  late  for  that  now,  sir.  The  man  is  a  dangerous 
madman  and  should  be  arrested  and  put  under  restraint." 

"  I  confess  I  don't  quite  see  what  he  has  done ;  but 
if " 

The  Archdeacon  drew  himself  up.  "  Because  a  clergy- 
man is  well  connected — has  high  official  connections  in- 
deed     But  surely  it  is  better  that  oiae  man  should  be 

put  under  control,  whoever  he  is,  than  that  the  whole 
Church  and  nation  should  be  endangered  and  disgraced." 

"  Ah H'm  ! H'm  !  I  think  I've  heard  that  sen- 
timent before  somewhere,  Mr.  Archdeacon.      But  I'll  not 

detain  you  now.     If  a  warrant  is  necessary "  and  with 

vague  promises  and  plausible  speeches  the  Minister  bowed 
the  deputation  out  of  the  room.  Then  he  pisht  and  pshawed, 
swung  a  field  glass  across  his  shoulder,  and  prepared  to  leave 
for  the  day. 

"  Confound  them  !  How  these  Christians  love  each 
other !  I  leave  it  with  you,  Drake.  When  tlie  matter  was 
mentioned  at  Downing  Street  the  Prime  Minister  told  us  to 
act  without  regard  to  his  interest  in  the  young  priest.  If 
there's  likely  to  be  a  riot  let  the  Commissioner  get  his  war- 
rant     Heigho !     Ten-thirty  !     I'm  off  !     G-ood-day  !  " 

Some  minutes  afterward  Drake  himself,  having  written 
to  Scotland  Yard,  followed  his  chief  down  the  private  stair- 
case to  the  quadrangle,  where  Glory  and  Rosa  were  waiting 
in  tlie  carriage  under  the  arch. 

In  honour  of  the  event  in  which  his  horse  was  to  play  a 
part,  Drake  had  engaged  a  coach  to  take  a  party  of  friends 
to  the  Downs.  They  assembled  at  a  hotel  in  the  Bucking- 
ham Palace  Eoad.  Lord  Robert  was  there,  dressed  in  the 
latest  fashion,  with  boots  of  approved  Parisian  shape  and  a 


438 


THE   CHKISTIAN. 


necktie  of  ciying  colours.  Betty  Bellman  was  with  him,  in 
a  red  and  white  dress  and  a  large  red  hat.  There  was  a  lady 
in  pale  green  with  a  light  bonnet,  another  in  gray  and 
white,  and  another  in  brightest  blue.  They  were  a  large, 
smart,  and  even  gorgeous  company,  chiefly  theatrical.  Be- 
fore eleven  o'clock  they  were  spinning  along  the  Kenning- 
ton  Road  on  their  way  to  Epsom. 

Drake  himself  drove  and  Glory  occupied  the  seat  of 
honour  by  his  side.  She  was  looking  brighter  now,  and  was 
smiling  and  laughing  and  making  little  sallies  in  response 
to  her  companion's  talk.  He  was  telling  her  all  about  the 
caj-nival.  The  Derby  was  the  greatest  race  the  world  over. 
It  was  run  for  about  six  thousand  sovereigns,  but  the  total 
turnover  of  the  meeting  was  probably  a  million  of  money. 
Thus  on  its  business  side  alone  it  was  a  great  national  enter- 
prise, and  the  puritans  who  would  abolish  it  ought  to  think 
of  that.  A  race-horse  cost  about  three  hundred  a  year  to 
keep,  but  of  course  nobody  maintained  his  racing  establish- 
ment on  his  winnings.  Nearly  everybody  had  to  bet,  and 
gambling  was  not  so  great  an  offence  as  some  people  sup- 
posed. The  whole  trade  of  the  world  was  of  the  nature  of  a 
gamble,  life  itself  was  a  gamble,  and  the  race-course  was  the 
only  market  in  the  world  where  no  man  could  afford  to  go 
bankrupt,  or  be  a  defaulter  and  refuse  to  pay. 

They  were  now  going  by  Clapham  Common  with  an  un- 
broken stream  of  vehicles  of  everj^  sort — coaches  with  out- 
riders, landaus,  hansom  cabs,  omnibuses,  costers'  spring 
carts  and  bafrows.  Every  coach  carried  its  horn,  and  every 
liorn  was  blown  at  the  approach  to  every  village.  The  sun 
was  hot,  and  the  roads  were  rising  to  the  horses'  fetlocks  in 
dust.  Drake  was  pointing  out  some  of  their  travelling  com- 
panions. That  large  coach  going  by  at  a  furious  gallop  was 
the  coach  of  the  Army  and  Navy  Club ;  that  barouche  with 
its  pair  of  grays  and  its  postilion  belonged  to  a  well-known 
wine  merchant;  that  carriage  with  its  couple  of  leaders 
worth  hundreds  apiece  was  the  property  of  a  prosperous 
publican ;  that  was  the  coach  whicli  usually  ran  between 
Northumberland  Avenue  and  Virginia  Water,  and  its  seats 
were  let  out  at  so  nmch  apiece,  usually  to  clerks  who  prac- 
tised innocent  frauds  to  escape  from  the  city ;   those  sol- 


SANCTUARY.  439 

diers  on  the  omnibus  were  from  Wellington  Barracks  on 
"  Derby  leave  "  ;  and  those  jolly  tars  with  their  sweethearts, 
packed  like  herrings  in  a  car,  were  the  only  true  sportsmen 
on  the  road  and  probably  hadn't  the  price  of  a  glass  of  rum 
on  any  race  of  the  day.  Going  by  road  to  the  Derby  was 
almost  a  thing  of  the  past ;  smart  people  didn't  often  do  it, 
but  it  was  the  best  fun  anyway,  and  many  an  old  sport 
tooled  his  team  on  the  road  still. 

Glory  grew  brighter  at  every  mile  they  covered.  Every- 
thing pleased  or  amused  or  astonished  her.  With  the  charm 
born  of  a  vivid  interest  in  life  she  radiated  happiness  over 
all  the  company.  Some  glimpses  of  the  country  girl  came 
back,  her  soul  thi'illed  to  the  beauty  of  the  world  around, 
and  she  cried  out  like  a  child  at  sight  of  the  chestnut  and 
red  hawthoi'n,  and  at  the  scent  of  spring  with  which  the  air 
was  laden.  From  time  to  time  she  was  recognised  on  the 
road,  people  raised  their  hats  to  her,  and  Drake  made  no 
disguise  of  his  beaming  pride.  He  leaned  back  to  Rosa, 
who  was  sitting  on  the  seat  behind,  and  whispered,  "  Like 
herself  to-day,  isn't  she  ?  " 

"  Why  shouldn't  she  be  ?  With  all  the  world  at  her  feet 
and  her  future  on  the  knees  of  the  gods  ! "  said  Rosa. 

But  a  shade  of  sadness  came  over  Glory's  face,  as  if  the 
gay  world  and' its  amusements  had  not  altogether  filled  a 
void  that  was  left  somewhere  in  her  heart.  They  were 
drawing  up  to  water  the  horses  at  the  old  "  Cock  "  at  Sutton, 
and  a  brown-faced  woman  with  big  silver  earrings  and  a 
monster  hat  and  feather  came  up  to  the  coach  to  tell  the 
"quality"  their  fortunes. 

'■  Oh,  let  us,  Glo,"  cried  Betty.  "  I'd  love  it  of  all  things, 
doncher  know." 

The  gipsy  had  held  out  her  hand  to  Glory.  "  Let  me 
look  at  your  palm,  pretty  lady." 

"  Am  I  to  cross  it  with  silver  first  ?" 

"  Thank  you  kindly !  But  must  I  tell  you  the  truth, 
lady?" 

"  Why  yes,  mother.     Why  not  ? " 

"  Then  you're  going  to  lose  money  to-day,  lady ;  but  never 
mind,  you  shall  be  fortunate  in  the  end,  and  the  one  you 
love  shall  be  yours." 


440  THE   CHRISTIAN. 

"  That's  all  right,"  cried  the  gentlemen  in  chorus.  The 
ladies  tittered,  and  Glory  turned  to  Drake  and  said,  "A  pair 
of  gloves  against  Elian  Yannin." 

"  Done,"  said  Drake,  and  there  was  general  laughter. 

The  gipsy  still  held  Glory's  hand,  and  looking  up  at 
Drake  out  of  the  corner  of  her  eyes,  she  said  :  "  I  won't  tell 
you  what  colour  he  is,  pretty  lady,  but  he  is  young  and  tall, 
and,  though  he  is  a  gorgio,  he  is  the  kind  a  Romany  girl 
would  die  for.  Much  trouble  you'll  have  witli  him,  and  be- 
cause of  his  foolishness  and  your  own  unkindness  you'll 
put  seven  score  miles  between  you.  You  like  to  live  your 
life,  lady,  and  as  men  drown  their  sorrows  in  drink,  so  do 
you  drown  yours  in  pleasure.  But  it  will  all  come  right  at 
last,  lady,  and  those  who  envy  and  hate  you  now  will  kiss 
the  gi'ound  you  walk  on." 

"  Glo,"  said  Betty,  "  I'm  surpx^ised  at  ye,  dearest,  listenin' 
to  such  clipperty  clapper." 

Glory  did  not  recover  her  composure  after  tliis  incident 
until  they  came  near  the  Downs.  Meantime  the  grooms  had 
blown  their  horns  at  many  villages  hidden  in  the  verdure 
of  charming  hollows,  and  the  coaches  had  overtaken  the 
people  who  had  left  London  earlier  in  the  day  to  make  the 
journey  afoot.  Boy  tramps,  looking  tired  already — "  Wish 
ye  luck,  gentlemen  "  ;  fat  sailors  and  mutilated  colliers  play- 
ing organs — "Twas  in  Trafalgar  Bay,  and  Come  Whoam  to 
thee  Childer  and  Me  ;  tatterdemalions  selling  the  C'rect 
Card — "  on'y  fourpence,  and  I've  slep'  out  on  the  Downs  last 
night,  s'elp  me  " — and  all  the  ragged  army  of  the  maimed 
and  the  miserable  who  hang  on  the  edge  of  a  carnival. 

Among  this  wreckage,  as  they  skimmed  over  it  on  the 
coach,  there  was  one  figure  more  grotesque  than  the  rest,  a 
Polish  Jew  in  his  long  kaftan  and  his  worn  Sabbath  hat, 
going  along  alone,  triddle-traddle,  in  his  slippers  without 
heels.  Lord  Robert  was  at  the  moment  teasing  Betty  into  a 
pet  by  christening  her  "  The  Elephant,"  in  allusion  to  her 
stoutness.  But  somebody  called  his  attention  to  the  Jew,  and 
he  screwed  his  glass  to  his  eye  and  cried,  "  Father  Storm,  by 
Jove  ! " 

The  nickname  was  taken  up  by  other  people  on  the 
coacli,  and  also  by  people  on  other  coaches,  and  "Father 


SANCTUARY.  441 

Storm ! "  was  thrown  at  the  poor  scarecrow  as  a  missile 
from  twenty  quarters  at  once.  Glory's  colour  was  rising 
to  her  ears,  and  Drake  was  humming-  a  tune  to  cover  her 
confusion.  But  Betty  was  asking,  "  Who  was  Father  Storm, 
if  you  please  ? "  and  Lord  Robert  was  saying,  "  Bless  my 
stars,  this  is  something  new,  don't  you  know  !  Here's  some- 
body who  doesn't  know  Father  Storm  !  Father  Storm,  my 
dear  Elephant,  is  the  prophet,  the  modern  Jonah,  who  pre- 
dicts that  Nineveh — that  is  to  say,  London — is  to  be  de- 
stroyed this  very  day  !  " 

"  He  must  be  balmy ! "  said  Betty,  and  the  lady  in  blue 
went  into  fits  of  laughter. 

"  Yes,"  said  Lord  Robert,  "  and  all  because  wicked  men 
like  ourselves  insist  on  enjoying  ourselves  on  a  day  like 
this  with  pretty  people  like  you.'' 

'•  Well,  he  is  a  cough-drop ! "  said  Betty.  The  lady  in 
blue  asked  what  was  "balmy"  and  a  "cough-drop,"  and 
Lord  Robert  said : 

"  Betty  means  that  the  good  Father  is  crazy — silly — 
stupid — cracked  in  the  head  in  short " 

But  Glory  could  bear  no  more.  It  was  an  insult  to  John 
Storm  to  be  sat  upon  in  judgment  by  such  a  woman.  With 
a  fiery  jet  of  temper  she  turned  about  and  said,  "  Pity  there 
are  not  more  heads  cracked,  then,  if  it  would  only  let  a 
little  of  the  light  of  heaven  into  them." 

"  Oh,  if  it's  like  that "  began  Betty,  looking  round 

significantly,  and  Lord  Robert  said,  "  It  is  like  that,  dear 
Elephant,  and  if  our  charming  hurricane  will  pardon  me, 
I'm  not  surprised  that  the  man  has  broken  out  as  a  Messiah, 
and  if  the  authorities  don't  intervene " 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  Robert ! "  cried  Drake.  "  Listen, 
everybody ! " 

They  were  climbing  on  to  the  Downs  and  could  hear  the 
deep  hum  of  the  people  on  the  course.  "  My  ! "  said  Betty. 
"Well!"  said  the  lady  in  blue.  "It's  like  a  beehive  with 
the  lid  off,"  said  Glory. 

As  they  passed  the  railway  station  the  people  who  had 
come  by  train  poured  into  the  road  and  the  coach  had  to 
slow  down.    "  They  must  have  come  from  the  four  winds  of 
heaven,"  said  Glory. 
29 


442 


THE  CHRISTIAN. 


"Wait  only  wait !"  said  Drake. 

Some  minutes  afterward  everybody  drew  breath.  They 
were  on  the  top  of  the  common  and  had  a  full  view  of  the 
course.  It  was  a  vast  sea  of  human  beings  stretched  as  far 
as  the  eye  could  reach — a  black  moving  ocean  without  a 
glimpse  of  soil  or  grass.  The  race  track  itself  was  a  river 
of  people :  the  Graiad  Stand,  tier  on  tier,  was  black  from  its 
lawns  at  the  bottom  to  its  sloping  gallery  on  top  ;  and  the  ' 
"  Hill "  opposite  was  a  rocky  coast  of  carriages,  booths,  carts, 
and  clustering  crowds.  Glory's  eyes  seemed  to  leap  out  of 
her  head.  "  It's  a  nation ! "  she  said  with  panting  breath. 
"An  empire  !" 

They  were  diving  into  these  breaking,  plashing,  plung- 
ing waters  of  human  life  with  their  multitudinous  voices  of 
laughter  and  speech,  and  Glory  was  looking  at  a  dark 
figure  in  the  hollow  below  which  seemed  to  stand  up  above 
the  rest,  when  Drake  cried : 

"  Sit  hard,  everybody  !     We'll  take  the  hill  at  a  gallop." 

Then  to  the  crack  of  the  whip,  the  whoop  of  the  driver, 
and  the  blast  of  the  horn,  the  horses  flew  down  like  the 
wind.  Betty  screamed,  Eosa  groaned,  and  Glory  laughed 
and  looked  up  at  Drake  in  her  delight.  When  the  coach 
drew  up  on  the  other  side  of  the  hollow,  the  bell  was  ring- 
ing at  the  Grand  Stand  as  signal  for  another  race,  and  the 
dark  figure  had  disappeared. 


Ill, 

That  morning,  when  John  Storm  went  to  take  seven- 
o'clock  celebration,  the  knocker-up  with  his  long  stick  had 
not  yet  finished  his  rounds  in  the  courts  and  alleys  about 
the  church,  but  the  costers  with  their  barrows  and  donkeys, 
their  wives  and  their  children,  were  making  an  early  start 
for  Epsom.  There  were  many  communicants,  and  it  was 
eight  o'clock  before  he  returned  to  his  rooms.  By  that  time 
the  postman  had  made  his  first  delivery  and  there  was  a 
letter  fi-om  the  Prime  Minister.  "  Come  to  Downing  Street 
as  soon  as  this  reaches  you.     I  nnxst  see  you  immediately." 

He  ate  his   breakfast  of  milk   and   brown  bread,  said 


SANCTUARY.  443 

"Good-bye,  Brother  Andrew,  I  shall  be  back  for  evening 
service,"  whistled  to  the  dog,  and  set  out  into  the  streets. 
But  a  sort  of  superstitious  fear  had  taken  hold  of  him,  as  il 
an  event  of  supreme  importance  in  his  life  was  impending, 
and  before  answering  his  uncle's  summons  he  made  a  round 
of  the  buildings  in  the  vicinity  which  were  devoted  to  the 
work  of  his  mission.  His  first  visit  was  to  the  school.  The 
children  had  assembled,  and  they  v^ere  being  marshalled 
in  order  by  the  Sisters  and  prepared  for  their  hymn  and 
prayer. 

"  Good-morning,  Father." 

"  Good-morning,  children." 

Many  of  them  had  presents  for  him — one  a  flower,  an- 
other a  biscuit,  another  a  marble,  and  yet  another  an  old 
Christmas  card.  "  God  bless  them,  and  protect  them  !  "  he 
thought,  and  he  left  the  school  with  a  full  heart. 

His  last  visit  was  to  the  men's  shelter  which  he  had  es- 
tablished under  the  management  of  his  former  "  organ  man," 
Mr.  Jupe.  It  was  a  bare  place,  a  shed  which  had  been  a 
stable  and  was  now  floored  and  ceiled.  Beds  resembling  the 
bunks  in  the  foc's'le  of  a  ship  lined  the  walls.  When  these 
were  full  the  lodgers  lay  on  the  ground.  A  blanket  only 
was  provided.  The  men  slept  in  their  clothes,  but  rolled  up 
their  coats  for  pillows.  There  was  a  stove  where  they  miglit 
cook  their  food  if  they  had  money  to  buy  any.  A  ha'p'oi'th 
of  tea  and  sugar  mixed,  a  ha'p'orth  of  bread,  and  a  ha'p'orth 
of  butter  made  a  royal  feast. 

Going  through  the  square  in  which  his  church  stood  he 
passed  a  smart  gig  at  the  door  of  a  public-house  that  occu- 
pied the  corner  of  a  street.  The  publican  in  holiday  clothes 
was  stepping  up  to  the  driver's  seat,  and  a  young  soldier, 
smoking  a  cigarette,  was  taking  the  place  by  his  side. 
"  Morning,  Father,  can  you  tip  us  the  winner  ? "  said  the 
publican  with  a  grin,  while  the  soldier,  with  an  impudent 
smile,  cried  "  Ta-ta "  over  his  shoulder  to  the  second  story 
of  a  tenement  hou.se,  where  a  young  woman  with  a  bloated 
and  serious  face  and  a  head  mopped  up  in  curl-papers  was 
looking  down  from  an  open  window. 

It  was  nine  o'clock  when  John  Storm  reached  the  Prime 
Minister's  house.    A  small  crowd  of  people  had  followed 


444: 


THE  CHRISTIAN. 


him  to  the  door.  "His  lordship  is  waiting-  for  you  in  the 
garden,  sir,"  said  the  footman,  and  John  was  conducted  to 
the  back. 

In  a  shady  little  inclosure  between  Downing-  Street  and 
the  Horse  Guards  Parade  the  Prime  Minister  was  pacing  to 
and  fro.  His  head  was  bent,  his  step  was  heavy,  he  looked 
harassed  and  depressed.  At  sight  of  John's  monkish  habit 
he  started  with  surprise  and  faltered  uneasily.  But  pres- 
ently, sitting  by  John's  side  on  a  seat  under  a  tree,  and  keep- 
ing his  eyes  away  from  him,  he  resumed  their  old  relations 
and  said  : 

"  I  sent  for  you,  my  boy,  to  warn  you  and  counsel  you. 
You  must  give  up  this  crusade.  It  is  a  public  danger,  and 
God  knows  what  harm  may  come  of  it !  Don't  suppose  I  do 
not  sympathize  with  you.  I  do — to  a  certain  extent.  And 
don't  think  I  charge  you  with  all  the  follies  of  this  ridicu- 
lous distemper.  I  have  followed  you  and  watched  you,  and 
I  know  that  ninety-nine  hvmdredths  of  this  madness  is  not 
yours.  But  in  the  eye  of  the  public  you  are  responsible  for 
the  whole  of  it,  and  that  is  the  way  of  the  world  always. 
Enthusiasm  is  a  good  thing,  my  boy ;  it  is  the  rainbow  in 
the  heaven  of  youth,  but  it  may  go  too  far.  It  may  be  hurt- 
ful to  the  man  who  nourishes  it  and  dangerous  to  society. 
The  world  classes  it  with  lunacy  and  love  and  so  forth 
among  the  nervous  accidents  of  life ;  and  the  humdrum 
healthy-minded  herd  always  call  that  man  a  fool  and  a 
weakling  or  else  a  fanatic  and  a  madman,  in  w^hom  the 
grand  errors  of  human  nature  are  due  to  an  effort — may  I 
not  say,  a  vain  ejffort  ? — to  live  up  to  a  great  ideal."  There 
were  nervous  twitchings  over  the  muscles  of  John's  face. 
"  Come,  now,  come,  for  tlie  sake  of  peace  and  tranquillity, 
lest  there  should  be  disorder  and  even  death,  let  this  matter 
rest.  Think,  my  boy,  tliink,  we  are  as  much  concerned  for 
tlie  world's  welfare  as  you  can  be,  and  we  have  higher 
claims  and  heavier  responsibilities.  I  can  not  raise  a  hand 
to  help  you,  John.  In  the  nature  of  things  I  can  not  de- 
fend you.  I  sent  for  you  because — because  you  are  your 
mother's  son.  Don't  cast  on  me  a  heavier  bui'den  than  I 
can  bear.     Save  yourself  and  spare  me." 

"  What  do  you  wish  me  to  do,  uncle  ?  " 


SANCTUARY.  445 

"Leave  London  immediately  and  stay  away  until  this 
tmnult  has  settled  down." 

''  Ah,  that  is  impossible,  sir." 

"  Impossible  ? " 

'"  Quite  impossible,  and  though  I  did  not  make  these  pre- 
dictions about  the  destruction  of  London,  yet  I  believe  we 
are  on  the  eve  of  a  gi'eat  change." 

"You  do?" 

"Yes,  and  if  you  had  not  sent  for  me  I  should  have 
called  on  you,  to  ask  you  to  set  aside  a  day  for  public 
prayer  that  God  may  in  his  mercy  avert  the  calamity  that  is 
coming  or  direct  it  to  the  salvation  of  his  servants.  The 
morality  of  the  nation  is  on  the  decline,  uncle,  and  when 
morality  is  lacking  the  end  is  not  far  off.  England  is  given 
up  to  idleness,  pomp,  dissolute  practices,  and  pleasure — 
pleasure,  alwaj^s  pleasure.  The  vice  of  intemperance,  the 
mania  for  gambling,  these  are  the  vultures  that  are  consum- 
ing the  vitals  of  our  people.  Look  at  the  luxury  of  the 
country — a  ludicrous  travesty  of  national  greatness  !  Look 
at  the  tastes  and  habits  of  our  age— the  deadliest  enemies  of 
true  religion !  And  then  look  at  the  iirice  we  ai'e  paying 
in  what  the  devil  calls  '  the  priestesses  of  society '  for  the 
tranquillity  of  the  demon  of  lust !  " 

"  But  my  boy,  my  dear  boy " 

"  Oh,  yes,  uncle,  yes,  I  know,  I  know,  many  humanitarian 
schemes  are  afloat  and  we  think  we  are  not  indifferent  to 
the  condition  of  the  poor.  But  contrast  the  toiling  women 
of  East  London  with  the  idlers  of  Hyde  Park  in  a  London 
season.  Other  nations  have  professed  well  with  their  lips 
while  their  hearts  have  been  set  on  wealth  and  pleasure. 
And  they  have  fallen  !  Yes,  sir,  in  ancient  Asia  as  well  as 
in  modern  Europe  they  have  always  fallen.  And  unless  we 
unglue  ourselves  from  the  vanities  which  imperil  our  exist- 
ence we  shall  fall  too.  The  lust  of  pleasui*e  and  the  lust  of 
wealth  bring  their  own  revenges.  In  the  nation  as  well  as 
the  individual  the  Almighty  destroys  them  as  of  old." 

"  True— true  !  " 

"  Then  how  can  I  hold  my  peace  or  run  away  while  it  is 
the  duty  of  Christians,  of  patriots,  to  cry  out  against  this 
danger  ?    On  the  soul  of  every  one  of  us  the  duty  rests,  and 


446 


THE  CHRISTIAN. 


wlio  am  I  that  I  should  escape  from  it  ?  Oli,  if  the  Church 
only  realized  her  responsibility,  if  she  only  kept  her  eyes 
open " 

"  She  has  powerful  reasons  for  keeping-  them  closed,  my 
son,"  said  the  Minister,  "and  always  will  have  until  the 
Establishment  is  done  away  with.  It  is  coming  to  that 
some  day,  but  meantime  have  a  care.  The  clergy  are  not 
yom'  friends,  John.  Statesmen  know  too  well  the  clerical 
cruelty  which  shelters  itself  behind  the  secular  ax-m.  It  is 
an  old  story,  I  think,  and  you  may  find  instances  of  that 
also  in  your  ancient  Palestine.  But  beware,  my  boy,  be- 
Avare " 

" '  Marvel  not,  my  brethren,  if  the  world  hate  you.  Ye 
know  that  it  hated  me  before  it  hated  you.'  " 

The  exaltation  of  John's  manner  was  increasing,  and 
again  tlie  Prime  Minister  became  uneasy,  as  if  fearing  that 
the  young  monk  by  his  side  would  ask  him  next  to  kneel 
and  pray. 

"  Ah,  well,"'  he  said,  rising,  "  I  suppose  there  is  no  help 
for  it,  and  matters  must  take  their  own  course."  Then  he 
broke  into  other  subjects,  talked  of  his  brother,  John's 
father,  Avhom  he  had  lately  heard  from.  His  health  was 
failing,  he  could  not  last  very  long ;  a  letter  from  his  son 
now  might  make  all  things  well. 

John  was  silent,  his  head  Avas  down,  but  the  Prime  Min- 
ister could  see  that  his  words  took  no  effect.  Then  his  bleak 
old  face  smiled  a  wintry  smile  as  he  said  : 

"  But  you  are  not  mending  much  in  one  way,  my  boy. 
Do  you  know  you've  never  once  been  here  since  the  day  you 
came  to  tell  me  you  were  to  be  married,  and  intended  to 
follow  in  the  footsteps  of  Father  Damien  ?" 

John  flinched,  and  the  muscles  of  his  face  twitched  nerv- 
ou.sly  again. 

"  That  was  an  impossible  enterprise,  John.  No  wonder 
the  lady  couldn't  suffer  you  to  follow  it.  But  she  might 
have  allowed  you  to  see  a  lonely  old  kinsman  for  all  that.'' 
John's  pale  face  was  breaking,  and  his  breath  was  coming 
fast.  "  Well,  well,"  taking  his  arm,  "  I'm  not  reproaching 
you,  John.  Tliore  are  passions  of  the  soul  which  eat  up  all 
the  rest,  I  know  that  (juite  well,  and  when  a  man  is  under 


SANCTUARY.  44Y 

the  sway  of  them  he  has  neither  father  nor  uncle,  neither 
kith  nor  kin.     Good-bye  !  .  .  .  Ah,  this  way  out — this  way." 

The  footman  had  stepped  up  to  the  Minister  and  whis- 
pered something  about  a  crowd  in  front  of  the  house,  and 
John  was  passed  out  of  the  garden  by  tlie  back  door  into 
the  park. 

Three  hours  afterward  the  frequenters  of  Epsom  race- 
course saw  a  man  in  a  black  cassock  get  up  into  an  unoccu- 
pied wagonette  and  make  ready  to  speak.  He  was  on  the 
breast  of  "  The  Hill,"  directly  facing  the  Grand  Stand,  in  a 
close  pack  of  carriages,  four-in-hands,  landaus,  and  hansoms 
filled  with  gaily  dressed  women  in  pink  and  yellow  cos- 
tumes, drinking  champagne  and  eating  sandwiches,  and 
being  waited  upon  by  footmen  in  livery.  It  was  the  in- 
terval between  two  events  of  the  race  meeting,  and  beyond 
the  labyrinth  of  vehicles  there  was  a  line  of  betting  men  in 
outer  garments  of  blue  silk  and  green  alpaca,  standing  on 
stools  under  huge  umbrellas  and  calling  the  odds  to  motley 
crowds  of  sweltering  people  on  foot. 

"  Men  and  women,"  he  began,  and  five  thousand  faces 
seemed  to  rise  at  the  sound  of  his  voice.  Tlie  bookmakers 
kept  up  their  nasal  cries  of  "  I  lay  on  the  field  ! "  "  Five  to 
one  bar  one  ! "  But  tlie  crowd  turned  and  deserted  them. 
"  It's  the  Father,"  "  Father  Storm,"  the  people  said,  with 
laughter  and  chuckling,  loose  jests  and  some  swearing,  but 
they  came  up  to  him  with  one  accord  until  the  space  about 
him,  as  far  as  to  the  roadway  by  which  carriages  climbed 
the  hill,  was  an  unbroken  pavement  of  rippling  faces. 

"  Good  old  Father  ! "  and  then  laughter.  "  What  abart 
the  end  of  the  world,  old  gel  ? "  and  then  references  to 
"  the  petticoats "  and  more  laughter.  "  'Ere,  I'll  'ave  five 
bob  each  way.  Resurrection,"  and  shrieks  of  wilder  lavigh- 
ter  still. 

The  preacher  stood  for  some  moments  silent  and  un- 
shaken. Then  the  quiet  dignity  of  the  man  and  the  love  of 
fair  play  in  the  crowd  secured  him  a  hearing.  He  began 
amid  general  silence : 

"  I  don't  know  if  it  is  contrary  to  regulations  to  stand 
here  to  speak,  but  I  am  risking  that  for  the  urgency  of  the 
hour  and  message.    Men  and  women,  you  are  liere  under 


448 


THE  CHRISTIAN. 


false  pretences.  You  pretend  to  yourselves  and  to  each 
other  that  you  have  come  out  of  a  love  of  sport,  but  you 
have  not  done  so,  and  you  know  it.  Sport  is  a  plausible 
pleasure ;  to  love  horses  and  take  delight  in  their  fleetness 
is  a  pardonable  vanity,  but  you  are  here  to  practise  an  un- 
pardonable vice.  You  have  come  to  gamble,  and  your  gam- 
bling is  attended  by  every  form  of  intemperance  and  immo- 
rality. I  am  not  afraid  to  tell  you  so,  for  God  has  laid  upon 
me  a  plain  message,  and  I  intend  to  do  my  duty.  Tliese 
race-courses  are  not  for  horse-racing,  but  for  reservoirs  of 
avai'ice  and  drunkenness  and  prostitution.  Don't  think  *' — 
lie  was  looking  straight  into  the  jaainted  faces  of  the  women 
in  pink  and  yellow,  who  were  trying  to  smile  and  look 
amused — "  don't  think  I  am  going  to  abuse  the  unhappy 
girls  who  are  forced  by  a  corrupt  civilization  to  live  by  their 
looks.  They  are  my  friends,  and  half  my  own  life  is  spent 
among  them.  I  have  known  some  of  them  in  whose  hearts 
dwelt  heavenly  purity,  and  when  I  think  of  what  they  have 
sulTered  from  men  I  feel  ashamed  that  I  am  a  man.  But, 
my  sisters,  for  you,  too,  I  have  an  urgent  message.  It  is  full 
summer  with  you  now.  as  you  sit  here  in  your  gay  clothes 
on  this  bright  day ;  but  the  winter  is  coming  for  every  one 
of  you,  when  there  will  be  no  more  sunshine,  no  more 
luxury  and  pleasure  and  flattery,  and  when  the  miry  wal- 
lowers  in  troughs  and  stys,  who  are  now  taking  the  best 
years  of  j'our  lives  from  you " 

"  Helloa  there  !    "Whoop  !    Tarara-ra-ra-rara ! " 

A  four-in-hand  coach  was  dashing  headlong  up  the  hill 
amid  clouds  of  dust,  the  rattling  of  wheels,  the  shouts  of  the 
driver  and  the  blasts  of  the  horn,  and  the  people  who  covered 
the  roadway  were  surging  forward  to  make  room  for  it. 

"  It's  Gloria ! "  said  everybody,  looking  up  at  the  occu- 
pants of  the  coach  and  recognising  one  of  them. 

The  spell  of  the  preacher  was  broken.  He  paused  and 
turned  his  head  and  saw  Glory.  She  was  sitting  tall  and 
bright  and  gay  on  the  box-scat  by  the  side  of  Drake ;  the 
rays  of  the  sun  were  on  her  and  she  was  smiling  up  into  his 
face. 

The  preacher  began  again,  then  faltered,  and  then  stopped. 
A  bell  at  the  Grand  Stand  was  rinorins:.     "  Numbers  ffoin' 


SANCTUARY.  449 

up,"  said  everybody,  and  before  any  one  could  be  conscious 
of  wliat  was  hai^iiening,  John  Storm  was  only  a  cipher  in 
the  throng,  and  the  crowd  was  melting  away. 


IV. 

The  great  carnival  completely  restored  Glory's  spirits. 
She  laughed  and  cried  out  constantly  and  lived  from  minute 
to  minute  like  a  child.  Everybody  recognised  her  and  nearly 
everybody  saluted  her.  Drake  beamed  with  pride  and  de- 
light. He  took  her  about  the  course,  ansAvered  her  ques- 
tions, punctuated  her  jests,  and  explained  everything,  leav- 
ing Lord  Robert  to  entertain  his  guests.  Who  were  "  those 
dwellers  in  tents  "  ?  They  were  the  Guards'  Club,  and  the 
service  was  also  represented  by  artillery  men,  king's  hus- 
sars, and  a  line  regiment  from  Aldershot.  This  was  called 
"  The  Hill,^'  where  jovial  rascaldom  usually  swarmed, 
looking  out  for  stray  overcoats  and  the  lids  of  luncheon 
dishes  left  unprotected  on  carriages.  Yes,  the  pickpocket, 
the  card-sharper,  the  "  lumberer,"  the  confidence  man,  the 
blarneying  beggar,  and  the  fakir  of  every  description  laid 
his  snares  on  this  holy  spot.  In  fact,  this  is  his  Sanctuary 
and  he  peddles  under  the  eye  of  the  police.  "  Holy  Land  ? "' 
Ha,  ha  !  "  All  the  patriarchs  out  of  the  Bible  here  ?  "  Oh, 
the  vociferous  gentlemen  with  patriarchal  names  in  velvet- 
een coats  under  the  bannjers  and  canvas  sign-boards— Moses, 
Aaron,  and  so  forth?  They  were  the  "bookies,"  otherwise 
bookmakers,  generally  Jews  and  sometimes  Welshers. 

"  Here,  come  along,  some  of  you  sportsmen  !  I  ain't 
made  the  price  of  my  railway  fare,  s'elp  me  ! "  "  It's  a  dead 
cert,  gents."  "  Can't  afford  to  buy  thick  'uus  at  four  quid 
apiece!"    "  Five  to  one  on  the  field  !  "    "  I  lay  on  the  field  ! " 

A  "  thick  un  ? "  Oh,  that  was  a  sovereign,  half  a  thick  un 
half  a  sovereign,  twenty-five  pounds  a  "  pony,"  five  hundred 
a  "  monkey,"  flash  notes  were  "  stumers,"  and  a  bookmaker 
who  couldn't  i^ay  was  "  a  Welsher."  That  ?  That  was 
"  the  gi'eat  Brockton,"  gentleman  and  tipster.  "  Amusement 
enough  !  "  Yes,  niggers,  harpists,  Christy  Minstrels,  strong 
men,  acrobats,  agile  clowns  and  girls  on  stilts,  and  all  the 


4^50  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

ragamuffins  from  "  the  Burrer,"  bent  on  "  making  a  bit." 
African  Jungle  ?  A  shooting  gallery  with  model  lions  and 
bears.  Fine  Art  Exhibition  ?  A  picture  of  the  hanging  of 
recent  murderers.  Boxing  Eiug  ?  Yes,  for  women— they 
strip  to  the  waist  and  fight  like  fiends.  Then  look  at  the 
lady  auctioneer  selling  brass  sovereigns  a  penny  apiece. 

"  Buy  one,  gentlemen,  and  see  what  they're  like,  so  as 
the  '  bookies '  can't  pawse  'em  on  ye  unawares  ! " 

"  Food  enough  ! ''  Yes,  at  Margett's,  Patton's,  Hatton's, 
and  ''  The  Three  Brooms,"  as  well  as  the  barrows  for  stewed 
eels,  hard-boiled  eggs,  trotters,  coker-nuts,  wiakles,  oysters, 
cockles,  and  all  the  luxuries  of  the  New  Cut.  Why  were 
they  calling  that  dog  "  Cookshop  "  ?  Because  he  was  pretty 
sure  to  go  there  in  the  end. 

By  this  time  they  had  ploughed  over  some  quarter  of  a 
mile  of  the  hills-ide,  fighting  their  way  among  the  carriages 
that  stood  six  deep  along  the  rails  and  through  a  seething 
mass  of  ruffianism,  in  a  stifiing  atmosphere  polluted  by  the 
smell  of  ale  and  the  reeking  breath  of  tipsy  people. 

"  Whoo  !  I  feel  like  Shadrach,  Meshach,  and  Abednego 
rolled  into  one,''  said  Glory. 

"  Let  us  go  into  the  Paddock,"  said  Drake,  and  they  be- 
gan to  cross  the  race  track. 

"But  wasn't  that  somebody  preaching  as  we  galloped 
down  the  hill  ?  " 

"  Was  it  ?     I  didn't  notice,"  and  they  struggled  through. 

It  was  fresh  and  cool  under  the  trees,  and  Gloi-y  thought 
it  cheap  even  at  ten  shillings  a  head  to  walk  for  ten  minutes 
on  green  grass.  Horses  waiting  for  their  race  were  being 
walked  about  in  clothes  with  their  names  worked  on  the 
quarter  sheets,  and  breeders,  trainers,  jockeys,  and  clerks  of 
the  course  mingled  with  gentlemen  in  silk  hats  and  ladies 
in  smart  costumes. 

Drake's  horse  was  a  big  bay  colt,  very  thin,  almost  gaunt, 
and  with  long,  high-stepping  legs.  The  trainer  was  waiting 
for  a  last  word  with  his  owner.  He  was  cool  and  confident. 
"  Never  better  or  fitter,  Sir  Francis,  and  one  of  the  grandest 
three-year-olds  that  ever  looked  through  a  bridle.  Imj)roved 
wonderful  since  he  got  over  his  dental  troubles,  and  does 
justice  to  the  contents  of  his  manger.     Capital  field,  s'-    " 


SANCTUARY.  451 

it's  got  to  run  up  against  summat  smart  to-day.  Favourite, 
sir  ?  Pooh  !  A  coach  horse  !  Not  stripping-  well— light  in 
the  flank  and  tucked  up.  But  this  colt  fills  the  eye  as  a 
first-class  one  should.  Whatever  beats  him  will  win,  sir, 
take  my  word  for  that." 

And  the  jockey,  standing  by  in  his  black-and-white 
jacket,  wagged  his  head  and  said  in  a  cheery  whisper  : 
'■  Have  what  ye  like  on  'im.  Sir  Francis.  Great  horse,  sir  ! 
Got  a  Derby  in  'im  or  I'm  a  Slowcome.'* 

Drake  laughed  at  their  predictions,  and  Glory  patted  the 
creature  while  it  beat  its  white  feet  on  the  ground  and  the 
leather  of  its  saddle  squeaked.  The  club  stand  from  there 
looked  like  a  sea  of  foaming  laces,  feathers,  flowers,  and 
sunshades.  They  turned  to  go  to  it,  passing  first  by  the 
judge's  box,  whereof  Drake  explained  the  use,  then  through 
the  Jockey  Club  inclosure,  which  was  full  of  peers,  peeresses, 
judges,  members  of  Parliament,  and  other  turfites,  and  final- 
ly through  the  betting  ring  where  some  hundreds  of  bet- 
ting men  of  the  superior  class  proclaimed  their  calling  in 
loud  voices  and  loud  clothes  and  the  gold  letters  on  their 
betting  books.    To  one  of  these  pencillers  Drake  said : 

"  What's  the  figure  for  Elian  Vannin  ? " 

"Ten  to  one,  market  price,  sir." 

"I'll  take  you  in  hundreds,"  said  Drake,  and  they  strug- 
gled through  the  throng. 

Going  up  the  stairs  Glory  said  :  "  But  wasn't  the  Arch- 
deacon at  your  office  this  morning  ?  We  saw  him  coming 
out  of  the  square  with  Mr.  Golightly." 

"  Oh,  did  you  ?    How  hot  it  is  to-day  ! " 

"  Isn't  it  ?  I  feel  as  if  I  should  like  to  play  Ariel  in  gos- 
samer     But  wasn't  it  ?  " 

"  You  needn't  trouble  about  that.  Glory.  It's  an  old 
story  that  religious  intolerance  likes  to  throw  the  responsi- 
bility of  its  acts  on  the  civil  government." 

"  Tlien  John  Storm " 

"  He  is  in  no  danger  yet — none  whatever." 

"  Oh,  how  glorious ! "  They  had  reached  the  balcony, 
and  Glory  was  pretending  that  the  change  in  her  voice  and 
manner  came  of  delight  at  the  sudden  view.  She  stood  for 
a  moment  spellbound,  and  then  leaned  over  the  rail  and 


452  TUB  CHKISTIAN. 

looked  thi'OUg:}i  the  dazzling-  haze  that  was  rising  from  the 
vast  crowd  below.  Not  a  foot  of  turf  was  to  be  seen  for 
a  mile  around,  save  where  at  the  jockeys'  gate  a  space  was 
kept  clear  by  the  police.  It  was  a  moving  mass  of  human- 
ity, and  a  low,  indistinguishable  murmur  was  coming  up 
from  it  such  as  the  sea  makes  on  the  lieadlands  above. 

The  cloud  had  died  off  Grlory's  face  and  her  eyes  were 
sparkling.  "  What  a  wonderfully  happy  world  it  must  be, 
after  all !  "  she  said. 

Just  then  the  standard  was  hoisted  over  the  royal  stand  to 
indicate  that  tlie  Prince  had  arrived.  Immediately  afterward 
there  was  a  silent  movement  of  hats  on  the  lawns  below  the 
boxes,  and  then  somebody  down  there  began  to  sing  God 
save  the  Queen.  The  people  on  the  Grand  Stand  took  up  the 
chorus,  then  the  people  on  the  course  joined  in,  then  the  peo- 
ple on  "  The  Hill,"  until  finally  the  whole  multitude  sang  the 
national  hymn  in  a  voice  that  was  like  the  voice  of  an  ocean. 

Glory's  eyes  were  now  full  of  tears,  she  was  struggling 
with  a  desire  to  cry  aloud,  and  Drake,  who  was  watching 
her  smallest  action,  stood  before  her  to  screen  her  from  the 
glances  of  gorgeously  attii*ed  ladies  who  were  giggling  and 
looking  through  lorgnettes.  The  fine  flower  of  the  aristoc- 
racy was  present  in  force,  and  the  club  stand  was  full  of 
the  great  ladies  who  took  an  interest  in  sport  and  even  kept 
studs  of  their  own.  Oriental  potentates  were  among  them 
in  suits  of  blue  and  gold,  and  the  French  language  was 
being  spoken  on  all  sides. 

Glory  attracted  attention  and  Drake's  face  beamed  with 
delight.  An  illustrious  personage  asked  to  be  introduced 
to  her,  and  said  he  had  seen  her  first  performance  and  pre- 
dicted her  extraordinary  success.  She  did  not  flinch.  There 
was  a  slight  tremor,  a  scarcely  perceptible  twitching  of  the 
lip,  and  theii  she  bore  her  honours  as  if  she  had  been  born 
to  them.  The  Prince  entertained  a  party  to  luncheon,  and 
Drake  and  Glory  were  invited  to  join  it.  All  the  smart  peo- 
ple were  there,  and  they  looked  like  a  horticultural  exhibi- 
tion of  cream  colour  and  rose  pink  and  gray.  Glory  kept 
watching  the  great  ones  of  the  earth,  and  she  found  them 
very  amusing. 

"  Well,  what  do  you  think  ?"  said  Drake. 


SANCTUAEY.  453 

"  I  think  most  people  at  the  Derby  must  have  the  wrong 
make-up  on.  That  gentleman,  now — he  ought  to  be  done 
up  as  a  stable-boy.  And  that  lady  in  mauve — she's  a  ballet 
girl  really,  only " 

"  Hush,  for  Heaven's  sake ! "  But  Glory  whispered, 
"  Let's  go  round  the  corner  and  laugh." 

She  sat  between  Drake  and  a  ponderous  gentleman  with 
a  great  beard  like  a  waterfall. 

"  What  are  the  odds  against  the  colt,  Drake  ?  " 

Drake  answered,  and  Glory  recalled  herself  from  her 
studies  and  said,  "  Oh,  yes,  what  did  you  say  it  was  ? " 

"A  prohibitive  price — for  you,"  said  Drake. 

"  Nonsense  !  I'm  going  to  do  a  flutter  on  my  own,  you 
know,  and  plunge  against  you." 

It  was  explained  to  her  that  only  bookmakers  bet  against 
horses,  but  the  gentleman  with  the  beard  volunteered  to 
reverse  positions,  and  take  Glory's  ten  to  one  against  Elian 
Vannin. 

"  In  what  ? " 

"  Oh — li'm — in  thick  'uns,  of  course." 

"  But  what  is  the  meaning  of  this  running  after  strange 
gods  ? "  said  Drake. 

*'  Never  mind,  sir  !  Out  of  the  mouths  of  babes  and  suck- 
lings, you  know "  and  then  the  bell  rang  for  the  race  of 

the  day,  and  they  sciu-ried  back  to  the  Stand.  The  numbers 
were  going  up  and  a  line  of  fifty  policemen  abreast  were 
clearing  the  course.  Some  of  the  party  had  come  over  from 
the  coach,  and  Lord  Robert  was  jotting  down  in  a  note- 
book the  particulars  of  betting  commissions  for  his  fair  com- 
panions. 

"  And  am  I  to  be  honoured  with  a  commission  from  the 
Hurricane  ? "  he  asked. 

"  Yes ;  what's  the  price  for  Elian  Vannin  ? " 

"  Come  down  to  five  to  one,  pretty  lady," 

"  Get  me  one  to  five  that  he's  going  to  lose." 

"  But  what  in  the  world  are  you  doing.  Glory  ? "  said 
Drake.     His  eyes  were  dancing  with  delight. 

'*  Running  a  race  with  that  old  man  in  the  box  which 
can  find  a  loser  first." 

At  that  moment  the  horses  were  sent  out  for  the  pre- 


454 


THE  CHRISTIAN. 


liminary  canter  and  parade  before  the  royal  stand,  and  a 
tingling  electrical  atmosphere  seemed  to  come  from  some- 
where and  set  every  tongue  wagging.  It  seemed  as  if  some- 
thing unexpected  was  about  to  occur,  and  countless  eyes 
went  up  to  the  place  where  Drake  stood  with  Glory  by  his 
side.  He  was  outwardly  calm,  but  with  a  proud  flush  under 
his  pallor  ;  she  was  visibly  excited,  and  could  not  stand  on 
the  same  spot  for  many  seconds  together.  By  this  time  the 
noise  made  by  the  bookmakers  in  the  inclosure  below  was 
like  that  of  ten  thousand  sea  fowl  on  a  reef  of  rock,  and 
Glory  was  trying  to  speak  above  the  deafening  clangour. 

"  Silver  and  gold  have  I  none,  but  if  I  had— what's  that? " 

A  white  flag  had  fallen  as  sigual  for  the  start,  there  was 
a  hollow  roar  from  the  starting  post,  and  people  were  shout- 
ing, "  They're  off ! "  Then  there  was  a  sudden  silence,  a 
dead  husli— below,  above,  around,  everywhere,  and  all  eyes, 
all  glasses,  all  lorgnettes  were  turned  in  the  direction  of  the 
runiiers. 

The  horses  got  well  away  and  raced  up  the  hill  like  cav- 
alry charging  in  line ;  then  at  the  mile  post  the  favourite 
drew  to  the  front,  and  the  others  went  after  him  in  an  in- 
distinguishable mass.  But  the  descent  seemed  not  to  his 
liking;  he  twisted  a  good  deal,  and  the  jockey  was  seen 
sawing  the  reins  and  ahnost  hanging  over  the  horse's  head. 
When  the  racers  swung  round  Tattenham  Corner  and  came 
up  like  mice  in  the  distance,  it  was  seen  that  another  hoi'se 
had  taken  advantage  of  an  opening  and  was  overhauling 
the  favourite  with  a  tremendous  rush.  His  colours  were 
white  and  black.  It  was  Elian  Vannin.  From  that  mo- 
ment Drake's  horse  never  relinquished  his  advantage,  but 
came  down  the  straight  like  a  great  bird  with  his  wiugs 
ceasing  to  flap,  passed  the  Stand  amid  great  excitement,  and 
won  handsomely  by  a  length. 

Then  in  the  roar  of  delight  that  went  up  from  the  crowd 
Glory,  with  her  hand  on  Drake's  shoulder,  was  seen  to  be 
^"^rying,  laughing,  and  cheering  at  the  same  moment. 

'•  P>ut  you've  lost,"  said  Drake. 

"Oh,  ])()ther  that!''  she  said,  and  when  the  jockey  had 
slipped  frouj  his  saddle,  and  Drake  had  taken  his  lior.se  into 
the  weighing-room  and  the  "  All  right !  "  was  shouted,  she 


SANCTUARY.  455 

started  the  cheering  again  and  said  she  meant  to  make  a 
dead  heat  of  it  witli  Tennyson's  brook. 

"  But  why  did  you  bet  against  me  ? "  said  Drake. 

"  You  silly  boy,"  she  answered  with  a  crow  of  happi- 
ness and  gaiety,  "  didn't  the  gipsy  tell  me  I  should  lose 
money  to-day  ?  And  how  could  I  bet  on  your  horse  unless 
you  lost  the  race  ?  " 

Drake  laughed  merrily  at  her  delicious  duplicity  and 
could  hardly  resist  an.  impulse  to  take  her  in  his  arms  and 
kiss  her.  Meantime  his  friends  were  slapping  him  on  the 
back  and  jpeople  were  crushing  up  to  offer  him  congratula- 
tions. He  turned  to  take  his  horse  into  the  Paddock,  and 
Lord  Robert  took  Glory  down  after  him.  The  trainer  and 
jockey  were  there,  looking  proud  aiid  happy,  and  Drake, 
with  a  pale  and  triumphant  face,  was  walking  the  great 
creature  about  as  if  reluctant  to  part  with  it.  It  was  breath- 
ing heavily,  and  sweat  stood  in  drops  on  its  throat,  head, 
and  ears. 

"  Oh,  you  beauty  !  How  I  should  love  to  ride  you  ! "  said 
Glory. 

"  But  dare  you  ?  "  said  Drake. 

"  Dare  I !     Only  give  me  the  chance." 

"  I  will,  by I  will,  or  it  won't  be  my  fault." 

Somebody  brought  champagne  and  Glory  had  to  drink 
a  bumper  to  "  the  best  horse  of  the  century,  bar  none." 
Then  her  glass  was  filled  afresh  and  she  had  to  drink  to  the 
owner,  "  the  best  fellow  on  earth,  bar  none,"  and  again  she 
was  compelled  to  drink  "to  the  best  bit  of  history  ever  made 
at  Epsom,  bar  none."  With  that  she  was  excused  while  the 
men  di'ank  at  Drake's  proposal  "  to  the  loveliest,  liveliest, 
leeriest  little  woman  in  the  world,  God  bless  her ! "  and  she 
hid  her  face  in  her  hands  and  said  with  a  merry  laugh  : 

"  Tell  me  when  it's  over,  boys,  and  I'll  come  again." 

After  Drake  had  despatched  telegrams  and  been  bom- 
barded by  interviewers,  he  led  the  way  back  to  the  coach  on 
the  Hill,  and  the  company  prepared  for  their  retui-n.  The 
sun  had  now  gone,  a  thick  veil  of  stagnant  clouds  had 
gathered  over  it,  the  sky  looked  sulky,  and  Glory's  head 
had  begun  to  ache  between  the  eyes.  Rosa  was  to  go  home 
by  train  in  order  to  reach  her  office  early,  and  Glory  half 


456 


THE  CHRISTIAN. 


wished  to  accompany  her.  But  an  understudy  was  to  play 
her  part  that  night  and  she  had  no  excuse.  The  coach 
wormed  its  way  through  the  close  pack  of  vehicles  at  the 
top  of  the  Hill  and  began  to  follow  the  ebbing  tide  of  hu- 
manity back  to  London. 

"  But  what  about  my  pair  of  gloves  ? " 

"  Oh,  you're  a  hard  man,  reaping  where  you  have  not 
sowed  and  gathering " 

"  There,  then,  we're  quits,"  said  Drake,  leaning  over 
from  the  box  seat  and  snatching  a  kiss  of  her.  It  was  now 
clear  that  he  had  been  drinking  a  good  deal. 


V. 

Before  the  race  had  been  run,  a  solitary  man  with  a  dog 
at  his  heels  had  crossed  the  Downs  on  his  way  back  to  the 
railway  station.  Jealousy  and  rage  possessed  his  heart  be- 
tween them,  but  he  would  not  recognise  these  passions ;  he 
believed  his  emotions  to  be  horror  and  pity  and  shame. 
John  Storm  had  seen  Glory  on  the  race-course,  in  Drake's 
company,  under  Drake's  protection :  he  x^roud  and  trium- 
phant, she  bright  and  gay  and  happy. 

"  O  Lord,  help  me  !     Help  me,  O  Lord  !  " 

And  now,  dragging  along  the  road,  in  his  mind's  eye  he 
saw  her  again  as  the  victim  of  this  man,  his  plaything,  his 
pastime  to  take  up  or  leave — no  better  than  any  of  tlie 
women  about  her,  and  where  they  were  going  she  would  go 
also.  Some  day  he  would  find  her  where  he  had  found 
othei's— outcast,  deserted,  forlorn,  lost ;  down  in  the  trough 
of  life,  a  thing  of  loathing  and  contempt ! 

"  O  Lord,  help  her !    Help  her,  O  Lord  !  " 

There  were  few  passengers  by  the  train  going  back  to 
London,  nearly  all  traffic  at  this  hour  being  the  other  way, 
and  there  was  no  one  else  in  the  compartment  he  occupied. 
He  threw  himself  down  in  a  corner,  consumed  with  indig- 
nation and  a  strange  sense  of  dishonour.  Again  he  saw  her 
bright  eyes,  her  red  lips— the  glow  of  her  whole  radiant 
face— and  a  paroxysm  of  jealousy  tore  his  heart  to  pieces. 
Gk)ry  was  his.     Though  a  bottomless  abyss  was  yawning 


SANCTUARY.  457 

between  them,  her  soul  belonged  to  him,  and  a  great  up- 
heaval of  hatred  for  the  man  who  possessed  her  body  surged 
up  to  his  throat.  Against  all  this  his  pride  as  well  as  his 
.  religion  rebelled.  He  crushed  it  down,  and  tried  to  turn  his 
mind  to  another  current  of  ideas.  How  could  he  save  her  ? 
If  she  should  go  down  to  perdition,  his  remorse  would  be 
worse  to  bear  than  flames  of  fire  and  brimstone.  The  more 
unworthy  she  was,  the  more  reason  he  should  strive  to 
rescue  her  soul  from  the  pangs  of  eternal  torment. 

The  rattling  of  the  carriage  bi'oke  in  upon  these  visions, 
and  he  got  up  and  paced  to  and  fro  like  a  bear  in  a  cage. 
And,  like  a  bear  with  its  slow,  strong  grip,  he  seemed  to  be 
holding  her  in  his  wrath  and  saying :  "  You  shall  not  de- 
stroy yourself ;  you  shall  not,  you  shall  not,  for  I,  I,  I  for- 
bid it !  "  Then  he  sank  back  in  his  seat,  exhausted  by  the 
conflict  which  made  his  soul  a  battlefield  of  spiritual  and 
seusual  passions.  Every  limb  shook  and  quivered.  He  be- 
gan to  be  afraid  of  himself,  and  he  felt  an  impulse  to  fly 
away  somewhere.  When  he  alighted  at  Victoria  his  teeth 
were  chattering,  although  the  atmosphere  was  stifling  and 
the  sky  was  now  heavy  with  black  and  lowering  clouds. 

To  avoid  the  eyes  of  the  people  who  usually  followed 
him  in  the  streets,  he  cut  through  a  narrow  thoi'oughfare 
and  went  back  to  Brown's  Square  by  way  of  the  park.  But 
the  park  was  like  a  vast  camp.  Thousands  of  people  seemed 
to  cover  the  grass  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach,  and  droves 
of  workmen,  followed  by  their  wives  and  children,  were 
trudging  to  other  open  spaces  farther  out.  It  was  the  panic 
teiTor.  Afterward  it  was  calculated  that  fifty  thousand 
persons  from  all  parts  of  London  had  quitted  the  doomed 
city  that  day  to  await  the  expected  catastrophe  under  the 
open  sky. 

The  look  of  fierce  passion  had  faded  from  his  face  by  the 
time  he  reached  his  church,  but  there  another  ordeal  awaited 
him.  Tliough  it  still  wanted  an  hour  of  the  time  of  evening 
service  a  great  crowd  had  gathered  in  the  square.  He  tried 
to  escape  observation,  but  the  people  pressed  upon  him,  some 
to  shake  his  hand,  others  to  touch  his  cassock,  and  many  to 
kneel  at  his  feet  and  even  to  cover  them  with  kisses.  With 
a  sense  of  shame  and  hypocrisy  he  disengaged  himself  at 
30 


.gg  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

length,  and  joined  Brother  Andrew  in  the  sacristy.  The 
simple'  fellow  was  full  of  marvellous  stories.  There  had 
been  wondrous  manifestations  of  the  workings  of  the  Holy 
Spirit  during  the  day.  The  knocker-up,  who  was  a  lame 
man,  had  shaken  hands  with  the  Father  on  his  way  home 
that  morning,  and  now  he  had  thrown  away  his  stick  and 
was  walking  firmly  and  praising  God. 

The  church  was  large  and  rectangular  and  plain,  and 
looked  a  well-used  edifice,  open  every  day  and  all  day.  The 
congregation  was  visibly  excited,  but  the  service  appeai-ed 
to  calnTthem.  The  ritual  was  full,  with  procession  and  in- 
cense, but  without  vestments,  and  otherwise  monastic  in  its 
severity.  John  Storm  preached.  The  epistle  for  the  day 
had  been  from  First  Corinthians,  and  he  took  his  text  from 
that  source  also  :  "  Deliver  him  up  to  Satan  for  the  destruc- 
tion of  the  flesh,  that  the  spirit  mc.y  be  saved  in  the  day  of 
the  Lord." 

People  said  afterward  that  they  had  never  heard  any- 
thing like  that  sermon.  It  was  delivered  in  a  voice  that 
was  low  and  tremulous  with  emotion.  The  subject  was 
love.  Love  was  the  first  inheritance  that  God  had  given  to 
his  creatures — the  purest  and  highest,  the  sweetest  and  best. 
But  man  had  degraded  and  debased  it,  at  the  temptation  of 
Satan  and  the  lust  of  the  world.  The  expulsion  of  our  first 
parents  from  Eden  was  only  the  poetic  figure  of  what  had 
happened  through  all  the  ages.  It  was  happening  now ; 
and  London,  the  modern  Sodom,  would  as  surely  pay  its 
penalty  as  did  the  cities  of  the  ancient  East.  No  need  to 
think  of  flood  or  fire  or  tempest — of  any  given  day  or  hour. 
Tlie  judgment  tliat  would  fall  on  England,  like  the  plagues 
tliat  fell  on  Egypt,  would  be  of  a  kind  with  the  offence. 
She  had  wronged  the  spirit  of  love,  and  who  knows  but  God 
would  punish  her  by  taking  out  of  the  family  of  man  the 
passion  by  which  she  fell,  lifting  it  away  with  all  that  per- 
tiiined  to  it — good  and  bad,  spiritual  and  sensual,  holy  and 
corru])t  ? 

The  burning  heat  clouds  of  the  day  seemed  to  have  de- 
scended into  the  church,  and  in  the  gatliering  darkness  the 
preacher,  his  face  just  visible,  with  its  eyes  full  of  smoulder- 
ing fire,  drew  an  awful  picture  of  the  world  under  the  effects 


SANCTUARY.  459 

of  such  a  curse.  A  place  without  unselfishness,  without  self- 
sacrifice,  without  heroLsm.  without  chivalry,  without  loyalty, 
without  laughter,  and  without  children !  Every  man  stand- 
ing- alone,  isolated,  self-centred,  self-cursed,  outlawed,  love- 
less, marriageless.  going  headlong  to  degeneracy  and  death ! 
Such  might  be  God's  punishment  on  this  cruel  and  wicked 
city  for  its  sensual  sin^ 

Then  the  preacher  lost  control  of  his  imagination  and 
swept  his  hearers  along  with  him  as  he  fabricated  horrible 
fancies.  The  people  were  terror-stricken,  and  not  until  the 
last  hymn  was  given  out  did  they  recover  the  colour  of  their 
blanched  faces.  Then  they  sang  as  with  one  voice,  and 
after  the  benediction  had  been  pronounced  and  they  were 
surging  down  the  aisles  in  close  packs,  they  started  the 
hymn  again. 

Even  when  they  had  left  the  church  they  could  not  dis- 
perse. Out  in  the  square  were  the  thousands  who  had  not 
been  able  to  get  inside  the  doors,  and  every  moment  the 
vast  pfoportions  of  the  crowd  were  swelled.  The  ground 
was  covered,  the  windows  round  about  were  thrown  up  and 
full  of  faces,  and  people  had  clambered  on  to  the  railings  of 
the  church,  and  even  on  to  the  roofe  of  the  houses. 

Somebody  went  to  the  sacristy  and  told  the  Father  what 
w^as  happening  outside.  He  was  now  like  a  man  beside 
himself,  and  going  out  on  to  the  steps  of  the  church  where 
he  could  be  seen  by  alL  he  lifted  his  hands  and  pronounced 
a  prayer  in  a  sonorous  and  fervent  voice  : 

"  How  long,  O  Lord,  how  long  '{  From  the  bosom  of 
God,  where  thou  reposesL  look  down  on  the  world  where 
thou  didst  walk  as  a  man.  Didst  thou  not  teach  us  to  pray 
*  Thy  kingdom  come "  f  Didst  thou  not  say  thy  kingdom 
was  near :  that  some  who  stood  with  thee  should  not  taste 
of  death  till  they  had  seen  it  come  with  power :  that  when 
it  came  the  poor  should  be  blessed,  the  hungry  should  be 
fed.  the  blind  should  see,  the  heavy-laden  should  find  rest 
and  the  will  of  thy  Father  sliould  be  done  on  earth  even  as 
it  is  done  in  heaven  ?  But  nigh  upon  two  thousand  years 
have  gone.  O  Lord,  and  thy  kingdom  hath  not  come.  In  thy 
name  now  doth  the  Pharisee  give  alms  in  the  streets  to  the 
sound  of  a  trumpet  going  before  him.    In  thy  came  now 


^QQ  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

doth  the  Levite  pass  by  on  the  other  side  when  a  man  has 
fallen  among  thieves.  In  thy  name  now  doth  the  priest 
buy  and  sell  the  glad  tidings  of  the  kingdom,  giving  for  the 
gospel  of  God  the  commandments  of  men,  living  in  rich 
men's  houses,  faring  sumptuously  every  day,  praying  with 
his  lips,  'Give  us  this  day  our  daily  bread,'  but  saying  to  his 
soul :  'Soul,  thou  hast  much  goods  laid  up  for  many  years  ; 
take  thine  ease,  eat,  drink,  and  be  merry.'  How  long,  O 
Lord,  how  long  ? " 

Hardly  had  John  Storm  stepped  back  when  the  heavy 
clouds  broke  into  mutterings  of  thunder.  So  low  were  the 
sounds  at  first  that  in  the  general  tumult  they  were  scarcely 
noticed;  but  they  came  again  and  again,  louder  and  louder 
with  every  fresh  reverberation,  and  then  the  excitement  of 
the  people  became  intense  and  terrible.  It  was  as  if  the 
heavens  themselves  had  spoken  to  give  sign  and  assurance 
of  the  calamity  that  had  been  foretold. 

First  a  woman  began  to  scream  as  if  in  the  pains  of 
labour.  Then  a  young  girl  cried  out  for  mercy,  and  accused 
hei-self  of  countless  and  nameless  offences.  Then  the  entire 
crowd  seemed  to  burst  into  sobs  and  moans  and  agonizing 
expressions  of  despair,  mingled  with  shouts  of  wild  laughter 
and  mad  thanksgiving.  "  Pardon,  pardon  !  "  "  O  Jesus, 
save  me  ! "  "  O  Saviour  of  sinners  1 ''  "  O  God,  have 
mei'cy  upon  me  ! "  "  O  my  heart,  .  my  heart ! "  Some 
threw  themselves  on  the  ground,  stiff  and  motionless  and 
insensible  as  dead  men.  Others  stood  over  the  stricken 
people  and  prayed  for  their  relief  from  the  power  of  Satan. 
Others  fell  into  convulsions,  and  yet  others,  with  wild  and 
staring  eyes,  rejoiced  in  their  own  salvation. 

It  was  now  almost  dark  and  some  of  the  people  who  had 
been  out  to  the  Derby  were  returning  home  in  their  gigs  and 
coster's  carts,  laughing,  singing,  and  nearly  all  of  them 
drunk.  There  were  wild  encounters.  A  young  soldier  (it 
wa.s  Charlie  Wilkes)  came  upon  Pincher  the  pawnbroker. 
"  Wot  tcher,  myte  ?    Wot's  yer  amoosemint  now  ? " 

"Silence,  you  evil  liver,  you  gambler,  vou  son  of  Be- 
lial!" 

"  Stou  thet  now— d'ye  want  a  kepple  er  black  eyes  or  a 
pouch  on  the  nowze  ?  " 


SANCTUARY.  461 

At  nine  o'clock  the  police  of  Westminster,  being  unable 
to  disperse  the  crowd,  sent  to  Scotland  Yard  for  the  mounted 
constabulary. 

VI.  i 

Meantime  the  man  who  was  the  first  cause  of  the  tumult 
sat  alone  in  his  cell-like  chamber  under  the  church,  a  bare 
room  without  carpet  or  rug,  and  having  no  furniture  except 
a  block  bed,  a  small  washstand,  two  chairs,  a  table,  a  prayer 
stool  and  crucifix,  and  a  print  of  the  Virgin  and  Child.  He 
heard  the  singing  of  the  people  outside,  but  it  brought  him 
neither  inspiration  nor  comfort.  Nature  could  no  longer 
withstand  the  strain  he  had  put  upon  it,  and  he  was  in  deep 
dejection.  It  was  one  of  those  moments  of  revulsion  which 
comes  to  the  strongest  soul  when  at  the  crown  or  near  the 
crown  of  his  expectations  he  asks  himself,  "  What  is  the 
good  ? "  A  flood  of  tender  recollections  was  coming  over 
him.  He  was  thinking  of  the  past,  the  happy  past,  the  past 
of  love  and  innocence  Avhich  he  had  spent  with  Glory,  of 
the  little  green  isle  in  the  Irish  Sea,  and  of  all  the  sweetness 
of  the  days  they  had  passed  together  before  she  had  fallen 
to  the  temptations  of  the  world  and  he  had  become  the 
victim  of  his  hard  if  lofty  fate.  Oh,  why  had  he  denied 
himself  the  joys  that  came  to  all  others  ?  To  what  end  had 
he  given  up  the  rewards  of  life  which  the  poorest  and  the 
weakest  and  the  meanest  of  men  may  share  ?  Love, 
woman's  love,  why  had  he  turned  his  back  upon  it  ?  Why 
had  he  sacrificed  himself  ?  O  God,  if,  indeed,  it  were  all 
in  vain ! 

Brother  Andrew  put  his  head  in  at  the  half -open  door. 
His  brother,  the  i^awnbroker,  was  thei*e  and  had  something 
to  say  to  the  Father.  Pincher's  face  looked  over  Andrew's 
shoulder.  The  muscles  of  the  man's  eyes  were  convulsed 
by  religious  mania. 

"I've  just  sold  my  biziness,  sir,  and  we  'aven't  a  roof  to 
cover  us  now  !  "  he  cried,  in  the  tone  of  one  who  had  done 
something  heroic. 

John  asked  him  what  was  to  become  of  his  mother. 

"  Lor',  sir,  ain't  it  the  beginning  of  the  end  ?    That's  the 


4(52 


THE  CHRISTIAN. 


gawspel,  ain't  it  ?    '  The  foxes  hev  'oles  and  the  birds  of  the 
air  hev  nests '  " 

And  then  close  behind  the  man,  interrupting  him  and 
pusliing  him  aside,  there  came  another  with  fixed  and  star- 
ing eyes,  crying :  "  Look  'ere,  Father  !  Look  !  Twenty  years 
I  'obbled  on  a  stick,  and  look  at  me  now !  Praise  the 
Lawd,  I'm  cured,  en'  no  bloomin'  errer !  I'm  a  brand  as 
was  plucked  from  the  burnin'  when  my  werry  ends  'ad 
caught  the  flames  !    Praise  the  Lawd,  amen  !  " 

John  rebuked  them  and  turned  them  out  of  the  room, 
but  he  was  almost  in  as  great  a  frenzy.  When  he  had  shut 
the  door  his  mind  went  back  to  thoughts  of  Glory.  She, 
too,  was  hunwing  to  the  doom  that  was  coming  on  all  this 
wicked  city.  He  had  ti'ied  to  save  her  from  it,  but  he  had 
failed.  What  could  he  do  now  ?  He  felt  a  desire  to  do 
something,  something  else,  something  extraordinary. 

Sitting  on  the  end  of  the  bed  he  began  again  to  recall 
Glory's  face  as  he  had  seen  it  at  the  race-course.  And  now 
it  came  to  him  as  a  shock  after  his  visions  of  her  early  girl- 
hood. He  thought  there  was  a  certain  vulgarity  in  it  which 
he  had  not  observed  before — a  slight  coarsening  of  its  ex- 
pression, an  indescribable  degeneracy  even  under  the  glow 
of  its  developed  beauty.  With  her  full  red  lips  and  curving 
throat  and  dancing  eyes,  she  was  smiling  into  the  face  of 
the  man  who  was  sitting  by  her  side.  Her  smile  was  a  sig- 
nificant smile,  and  the  bright  and  eager  look  with  which 
the  man  answered  it  was  as  full  of  meaning.  He  could  read 
their  thoughts.  What  had  happened  ?  Were  all  barriers 
broken  down  ?    Was  everything  understood  between  them  ? 

This  was  the  final  madness,  and  he  leaped  to  his  feet  in  an 
outburst  of  uncontrollable  rage.  All  at  once  he  shuddered 
with  a  feeling  that  .something  terrible  was  brewing  within 
him.  He  felt  cold,  a  shiver  was  running  over  his  whole 
body.  But  the  thought  he  had  been  in  search  of  had  come 
to  him  of  itself.  It  came  first  as  a  shock,  and  with  a  sense 
of  indescribable  dread,  but  it  had  taken  hold  of  him  and 
hurried  him  away.  He  had  remembered  his  text:  ''Deliver 
him  up  to  Satan  for  the  destruction  of  the  flesh,  that  the 
spirit  mav  l)e  s:ivorl  in  the  day  of  the  Lord." 

■     "-^- -Rook  itself. 


SANCTUARY.  463 

There  is  the  authority  of  St.  Paul  for  it.  Clearly  the  early 
Christians  countenanced  and  practised  such  things."  But 
then  came  a  spasm  of  physical  pain.  That  beautiful  life,  so 
full  of  love  and  loveliness,  radiating-  joy  and  sweetness  and 
charm  I  The  thing  was  impossible !  It  was  monstrous ! 
"  Am  I  going  mad  ?  "  he  asked  himself. 

And  then  he  began  to  be  sorry  for  himself  as  well  as  for 
Glory.  How  could  he  live  in  the  world  without  her  ?  Al- 
though he  had  lost  lier,  although  an  impassable  gulf  divided 
them,  although  he  had  not  seen  her  for  six  months  until  to- 
day, yet  it  was  something  to  know  she  was  alive  and  that 
he  could  go  at  night  to  the  place  where  she  was  and  look  up 
and  think,  "  She  is  there."  "  It  is  true,  I  am  going  mad,"  he 
thought,  and  he  trembled  again. 

His  mind  oscillated  among  these  conflicting  ideas,  until 
the  more  hideous  thought  returned  to  him  of  Drake  and  the 
smile  exchanged  with  Glory.  Then  the  blood  rushed  to  his 
head,  and  strong  emotions  paralyzed  his  reason.  When  he 
asked  himself  if  it  was  right  in  England  and  in  the  nine- 
teenth century  to  contemplate  a  course  which  might  have 
been  proper  to  Palestine  and  the  first  century,  the  answer 
came  instantaneously  that  it  icas  right.  Glory  was  in  peril. 
She  was  tottering  oil  the  verge  of  hell.  It  would  not  be 
wrong,  but  a  noble  duty,  to  prevent  the  possibility  of  such  a 
hideous  catastrophe.  Better  a  life  ended  than  a  life  degraded 
and  a  soul  desti'oyed. 

On  this  the  sophism  worked.  It  was  ti*ue  that  he  would 
lose  her ;  she  would  be  gone  from  him,  she  who  was  all  his 
joy,  his  vision  by  day,  his  dream  by  night.  But  could  he  be 
so  selfish  as  to  keep  her  in  the  flesh,  and  thus  expose  her 
soul  to  eternal  torment  ?  And  after  all  she  would  be  his  in 
the  other  world,  his  forever,  his  alone.  Nay,  in  this  world 
also,  for  being  dead  he  would  love  her  still.  "  But,  O  God, 
must  J  do  it  ?  "  he  asked  himself  at  one  moment,  and  at  the 
next  came  his  answer  :  "  Yes,  yes.  for  I  am  God's  minister." 

That  sent  him  back  to  his  text  again.  "  Deliver  him  up 
to  Satcm "  But  there  was  a  marginal  reference  to  Timo- 
thy, and  he  turned  it  up  with  a  trembling  hand.  Satan 
again,  but  the  Revised  Version  gave  "the  Lord's  servant," 
and  thus  the  text  should  read,   "Deliver  him  up  to  the 


464 


THE  CHRISTIAN. 


Lord's  servant  for  the  destruction  of  the  flesh,  that  the  spirit 
may  be  saved  in  tlie  day  of  the  Lord."  This  made  him  cry 
out.  He  drank  it  in  Avith  inebriate  delight.  The  thing  was 
irrevocably  decided.  He  was  justified,  he  was  authorized, 
lie  was  the  instrument  of  a  fixed  purpose.  No  other  con- 
sideration could  move  him  now. 

By  this  time  his  heart  and  temples  were  beating  vio- 
lently, and  he  felt  as  if  he  were  being  carried  up  into  a 
burning  cloud.  Before  his  eyes  rose  the  vision  of  Isaiah, 
the  meek  lamb  converted  into  an  inexorable  avenger  de- 
scending from  the  summit  of  Edom.  It  was  right  to  shed 
blood  at  the  divine  command — nay,  it  was  necessary,  it  was 
inevitable.  And  as  God  had  commanded  Abraham  to  take 
the  life  of  Isaac,  whom  he  loved,  so  did  God  call  on  him, 
John  Storm,  to  take  the  life  of  Glory  that  he  might  save  her 
from  the  risk  of  everlasting  damnation  ! 

There  may  have  been  intervals  in  which  his  sense  of 
hearing  left  him,  for  it  was  only  now  that  he  became  con- 
scious that  somebody  was  calling  to  him  from  the  other 
side  of  the  door. 

"  Is  anybody  there  ? "  he  asked,  and  a  voice  replied  : 

"  Dear  heart,  yes,  this  five  minutes  and  better,  but  I  didna 
dare  come  in,  thinking  surely  there  was  somebody  talking 
with  you.     Is  there  no  somebody  here  then  ?    No  ? " 

It  was  Mrs.  Callender,  who  was  carrying  a  small  glad- 
stone  bag. 

"Oh,  it's  you,  is  it  ?" 

"Aye,  it's  mysel',  and  sorry  I  am  to  be  bringing  bad 
news  to  you." 

"What  is  it  ?"  he  asked,  but  his  tone  betrayed  complete 
indifference. 

She  closed  the  door  and  answered  in  a  whisper :  "  A  war- 
rant !    I  much  misdoubt  but  there's  one  made  out  for  you." 

"  Is  that  all  ? " 

"  Bless  me,  what  does  the  man  want  ?  But  come,  laddie, 
come ;  you  must  tiik'  yoursel'  off  to  some  spot  till  the  storm 
blows  over." 

"  I  have  work  to  do.  auntie." 

"  Work !  You've  worked  too  much  already— that's  half 
the  bothermcut." 


SANCTUARY.  465 

"  God's  work,  auntie,  and  it  must  be  done." 

"  Then  God  will  do  it  himself,  without  asking  the  life  of 
a  good  man,  or  he's  no  just  what  I've  been  takin'  him  for. 
But  .see,"  opening  the  bag  and  v/hispering  again,  "  your 
auld  coat  and  hat !  I  found  them  in  your  puir  auld  room 
that  you'll  no  come  back  to.  You've  been  looking  like  an- 
other body  so  long  that  naebody  will  ken  you  when  you're 
like  yoursel'  again.  Come,  now,  off  with  these  lang,  ugly 
things " 

"  I  can  not  go,  auntie." 

"Cannot?" 

"I  will  not.  While  God  commands  me  I  will  do  my 
duty." 

"  Eh,  but  men  are  kittle  cattle  !  I've  often  called  you  my 
ain  son,  but  if  I  were  your  ain  mother  I  ken  fine  what  I'd 
do  with  you — I'd  just  slap  you  and  mak'  you.  I'll  leave  the 
clothes,  anyway.  Maybe  you'll  be  thinking  better  of  it 
when  I'm  gone.     Good-night  to  you.     Your  puir  head's  that 

hot  and  moidered But  what's  wrang  with  you,  John, 

man  ?    What's  come  over  ye  anyway  ?  " 

He  seemed  to  be  hardly  conscious  of  her  presence,  and 
after  standing  a  moment  at  the  door,  looking  back  at  him 
with  eyes  of  love  and  pity,  she  left  the  room. 

He  had  been  asking  himself  for  the  first  time  how  he  was 
to  carry  out  his  design.  Sitting  on  the  end  of  the  bed  with 
his  head  propped  on  his  hand  he  felt  as  if  he  were  in  the 
hold  of  a  great  ship,  listening  to  the  plash  and  roar  of  the 
stormy  sea  outside.  The  excitement  of  the  populace  was 
now  ungovernable  and  the  air  was  filled  with  gi'oans  and 
cries.  He  would  have  to  pass  through  the  people,  and  they 
would  see  him  and  detain  him,  or  perhaps  follow  him.  His 
impatience  was  now  feverish.  The  thing  he  had  to  do  must 
be  done  to-night,  it  must  be  done  immediately.  But  it  was 
necessary  in  the  first  place  to  creep  out  unseen.  How  was 
he  to  do  it  ? 

When  he  came  to  himself  he  had  a  vague  sen.se  of  some 
one  wishing  him  good-night.  "  Oh,  good-night,  good- 
night ! "  he  cried  with  an  apologetic  gesture.  But  he  was 
alone  in  the  room,  and  on  turning  about  he  saw  the  bag  on 
the  floor,  and   remembered   everything.      Then   a  strange 


^QQ  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

thing  happened.  Two  conflicting  emotions  took  hold  of 
him  at  once— the  first  an  enthusiastic,  religious  ecstasy,  the 
otlier  a  low,  criminal  cunning. 

Everything  was  intended.  He  was  only  the  instrument 
of  a  fixed  purpose.  These  clothes  were  proof  of  it.  They 
came  to  his  hand  at  tlie  very  moment  when  they  were 
wanted,  when  nothing  else  would  have  helped  him.  And 
Mrs.  Callender  had  been  the  blind  agent  in  a  higher  hand 
to  carry  out  the  divine  commands.  Fly  away  and  hide 
himself  ?  God  did  not  intend  it.  A  warrant  ?  No  matter 
if  it  sent  him  like  Craumer  to  the  stake.  But  this  was  a 
different  thing  entirely,  this  was  God's  wnll  and  purpose, 
this 

Yet  even  while  thinking  so  he  laughed  an  evil  laugh, 
tore  the  clothes  out  of  the  bag  with  trembling  hands,  and 
made  ready  to  put  them  on.  He  had  removed  his  cassock 
when  some  one  opened  the  door. 

"  Whos  there  ? "  he  cried  in  a  husky  growl. 

"  Only  me,"  said  a  timid  voice,  and  Brother  Andrew  en- 
tered, looking  pale  and  frightened. 

"  Oh,  you !  Come  in  ;  close  the  door ;  I've  something  to 
say  to  you.  Listen !  I'm  going  out,  and  I  don't  know 
when  I  shall  be  back.     Where's  the  dog  ?  " 

"  In  the  passage,  brother." 

"  Chain  him  up  at  the  back,  lest  he  should  get  out  and 
follow  me.  Put  this  cassock  away,  and  if  anybody  asks  for 
me  say  you  don't  know  where  I've  gone — you  understand  ? " 

"  Yes ;  but  are  you  well.  Brother  Storm  ?  You  look  as 
if  you  had  just  been  running." 

There  was  a  hand-glass  on  the  washstand,  and  John 
snatched  it  up  and  glanced  into  it  and  put  it  down  again 
ijistantly.  His  nosti-ils  were  quivering,  his  eyes  were 
ablaze,  and  the  expression  of  his  face  was  shocking. 

"  What  are  they  doing  outside  ?  See  if  I  can  get  away 
without  being  recognised,"  and  Brother  Andrew  went  out 
to  look. 

The  i)assago  from  the  chambers  under  the  church  was  into 
a  dark  and  narrow  stroet  at  the  back,  but  even  tliere  a  group 
of  i)eople  had  gathered,  attracted  by^Uie  lights  in  the  win- 
dows.   Their  voices  could  be  heard  through  the  door  which 

} 

( 


SANCTUARY.  467 

Brother  Andrew  had  left  ajar,  and  John  stood  beliind  it  and 
listened.  They  were  talking  of  himself — praising  him, 
blessing  him.  telling  stories  of  his  holy  life  and  gentleness. 

Brother  Andrew  reported  that  most  of  the  people  were 
at  the  front,  and  they  were  frantic  with  religious  excite- 
ment. Women  were  crushing  up  to  the  rail  which  the  Fa- 
ther had  leaned  his  head  upon  for  a  moment  after  he  had 
finished  his  prayer,  in  order  to  press  their  handkerchiefs 
and  shawls  on  it. 

"  But  nobody  would  know  you  now,  Brother  Storm — 
even  your  face  is  different." 

John  laughed  again,  but  he  turned  off  the  lights,  think- 
ing to  drive  away  the  few  who  were  still  lingering  in  the 
back  street.  The  ruse  succeeded.  Then  the  man  of  God 
went  out  on  his  high  errand,  crept  out,  stole  out,  sneaked 
out,  precisely  as  if  he  had  been  a  criminal  on  his  way  to 
commit  a  crime. 

He  followed  the  lanes  and  narrow  streets  and  alleys  be- 
hind the  Abbey,  past  the  "  Bell,"  the  "  Boar's  Head,"  and 
the  "  Queen's  Arms "' — taverns  that  have  borne  the  same 
names  since  the  days  when  Westminster  was  Sanctuary. 
People  home  from  the  races  were  going  into  them  with 
their  red  ties  awry,  with  sprigs  of  lilac  in  their  buttonholes 
and  oak  leaves  in  their  hats.  The  air  was  full  of  drunken 
singing,  sounds  of  quarrelling,  shameful  words  and  curses. 
There  were  some  mutterings  of  thunder  and  occasional 
flashes  of  lightning,  and  over  all  there  was  the  deep  hum  of 
the  crowd  in  the  church  square. 

Crossing  the  bottom  of  Parliament  Street  he  was  almost 
run  down  by  a  squadron  of  mounted  police  who  were  trot- 
ting into  Broad  Sanctuary.  To  escape  observation  he  turned 
on  to  the  Embankment  and  walked  under  the  walls  of  the 
gardens  of  Whitehall,  past  the  back  of  Charing  Cross  sta- 
tion to  the  street  going  up  from  the  Temple. 

The  gate  of  Clement's  Inn  was  closed,  and  the  porter  had 
to  come  out  of  his  lodge  to  open  it. 

"  The  Garden  House  !  " 

"  Garden  House,  sir  ?     Inner  court  left-hand  corner." 

John  passed  through.  "That  will  be  remembered  after- 
ward," he  thought.   "  But  no  matter — it  will  all  be  over  then." 


468 


THE  CHRISTIAN. 


And  coming  out  of  the  close  streets,  with  their  clatter  of 
traffic,  into  the  cool  gardens,  with  their  odour  of  moistened 
grass,  the  dull  glow  in  the  sky,  and  the  glimpse  of  the 
stiirs  through  the  tree-tops,  his  mind  went  back  by  a  sudden 
bound  to  another  night,  when  he  had  walked  over  the  same 
spot  with  Glory.  At  that  there  came  a  spasm  of  tenderness, 
and  his  throat  thickened.  He  could  almost  see  her,  and  feel 
her  by  his  side,  with  her  fragrant  freshness  and  buoyant 
step.  "  O  God  !  must  I  do  it,  must  I,  must  I  ? ''  he  thought 
again. 

But  another  memory  of  that  night  came  back  to  him ; 
he  heard  Drake's  voice  as  it  floated  over  the  quiet  place. 
Then  the  same  upheaval  of  hatred  which  he  had  felt  before 
he  felt  again.  The  man  was  the  girl's  ruin  ;  he  had  tempted 
her  by  love  of  dress,  of  fame,  of  the  world's  vanities  and  fol- 
lies of  every  sort.  This  made  him  think  for  the  first  time 
of  how  he  might  find  her.  He  might  find  her  with  him. 
They  would  come  back  from  the  Derby  together.  He  would 
bring  her  home,  and  they  would  sup  in  company.  The 
house  would  be  lit  up ;  the  windows  thrown  open ;  they 
would  be  playing  and  singing  and  laughing,  and  the  sounds 
of  their  merriment  would  come  down  to  him  into  the  dark- 
ness below. 

All  the  better,  all  the  better  !  He  would  do  it  before  the 
man's  face.  And  Ivhen  it  was  done,  when  all  was  over, 
when  she  lay  there — lay  there — there — he  would  turn  on 
the  man  and  say  :  "  Look  at  her,  the  sweetest  girl  that  ever 
breathed  the  breath  of  life,  the  dearest,  truest  woman  in  all 
the  world  !  You  have  done  that— you — you — you — and  God 
damn  you  ! " 

His  tortured  heart  was  afire,  and  his  brain  was  reeling. 
Before  he  knew  where  lie  was  he  had  passed  from  the  outer 
court  into  the  inner  one.  "  Here  it  is— this  is  the  house,"  he 
thought.  But  it  was  all  dark.  Just  a  few  lights  burning, 
but  they  had  been  carefully  turned  down.  The  windows 
wore  closed,  the  blinds  were  drawn,  and  there  was  not  a 
sound  anywhere!  He  stood  some  minutes  trying  to  think, 
and  during  that  time  the  mood  of  frenzy  left  him  and  the 
low  cunning  came  back.     Then  he  rang  the  bell. 

There  was  no  answer,  so  he  rang  again.     After  a  while 


SANCTUARY.  469 

lie  heard  a  footstep  that  seemed  to  come  up  from  be- 
low. Still  the  door  was  not  opened,  and  he  rang  a  third 
time. 

"  Who's  there  ?"  said  a  voice  within. 

'■  It  is  I — open  the  door,"  he  answered. 

"  Who  are  you  ?  "  said  the  voice,  and  he  replied  impa- 
tiently : 

"  Come,  come,  Liza,  open  and  see." 

Then  the  catch  lock  was  shot  back.  At  the  next  mo- 
ment he  was  in  the  hall,  shutting  the  door  behind  him,  and 
Liza  was  looking  up  into  his  face  with  eyes  of  mingled  fear 
and  relief. 

"  Lor',  sir,  whyever  didn't  you  say  it  was  you  ? " 

"  Where's  your  mistress  ?  " 

"  Gone  to  the  office,  and  won't  be  back  till  morning. 
And  Miss  Gloria  isn't  home  from  the  races  yet." 

"  I  must  see  her  to-night — I'll  wait  upstairs." 

"  You  must  excuse  me,  sir — Farver,  I  mean — but  I 
wouldn't  a-known  your  voice,  it  seemed  so  different.  And 
me  that  sleepy  too,  being  on  the  go  since  six  in  the 
mornin' " 

"  Go  to  bed,  Liza.  You  sleep  in  the  kitchen,  don't 
you  ? " 

"Yes,  sir,  thank  you,  I  think  I  will,  too.  Miss  Gloria 
can  let  herself  in,  anyway,  same  as  comin'  fi'om  the  theatre. 
But  can  I  git  ye  anythink  ?  No  ?  Well,  you  know  your 
wye  up,  sir,  down't  ye  ? " 

"  Yes,  yes  ;  good-night,  Liza  ! " 

"  Good-night,  Farver  !  " 

He  had  set  his  foot  on  the  stair  to  go  up  to  the  drawing- 
room  when  it  suddenly  occurred  to  him  that  though  he  was 
the  minister  of  God  he  was  using  the  weapons  of  the  devil. 
No  matter !  If  he  had  been  about  to  commit  a  crime  it 
would  have  been  different.  But  this  was  no  crime,  and  he 
was  no  criminal.  He  was  the  instrument  of  God's  mercy 
to  the  woman  he  loved.  He  was  going  to  slay  her  body 
that  he  might  save  her  soul ! 


470 


THE  CHRISTIAN. 


VII. 


The  journey  home  from  the  Derby  had  been  a  long  one, 
but  Glory  had  enjoyed  it.  When  she  had  settled  down  to 
the  physical  discomfort  of  the  blinding  and  choking  dust, 
the  humours  of  the  road  became  amusing.  This  endless 
procession  of  good-humoured  ruffianism  sweeping  througli 
the  most  sacred  retreats  of  Nature,  this  inroad  of  every 
order  of  the  Stygian  demi-monde  on  to  the  slopes  of  Olym- 
pus, was  intensely  interesting.  Men  and  women  merry 
Avith  drink,  all  laughing,  shouting,  and  singing ;  some  in 
fine  clothes  and  lounging  in  carriages,  others  in  sti'iped  jer- 
seys and  yellow  cotton  dresses,  huddled  up  on  donkey  bar- 
rows; some  smoking  cigarettes  and  cigars  and  drinking 
champagne,  others  smoking  clay  pipes  with  the  bowls  down- 
ward, and  flourishing  bottles  of  ale  ;  some  holding  rhubarb 
leaves  over  their  heads  for  umbrellas,  and  pelting  the  police 
with  confetti;  othei's  wearing  executioners'  masks,  false 
mustaches,  and  red-tipped  noses,  and  blowing  bleating 
notes  out  of  penny  trumpets — but  all  one  family,  one  com- 
pany, one  class. 

There  were  ghastly  scenes  as  well  as  humorous  ones — 
an  old  horse,  killed  by  the  day's  work  and  thrown  into  the 
ditcli  by  the  roadside,  axletrees  broken  by  the  heavy  loads 
and  people  thrown  out  of  their  carts  and  cut,  boy  tramps 
dragging  along  like  worn-out  old  men,  and  a  Welsher  with 
his  clothes  torn  to  ribbons,  stealing  across  the  fields  to  escape 
a  yelping  and  infuriated  crowd. 

But  the  atmosphere  was  full  of  gaiety,  and  Glory  laughed 
at  nearly  everything.  Lord  Robert,  with  his  arm  about 
Betty's  waist,  was  chaffing  a  coster  who  had  a  drunken 
woman  on  his  back  seat.  "  Got  a  passenger,  driver  ? " 
"  Yuss,  sir,  and  I'm  agoin'  'ome  to  my  wife  to-night,  and 
thet's  more  nor  you  dare  do."  A  young  fellow  in  pearl 
buttons  was  tramping  along  with  a  young  girl  in  a  tremen- 
dous liat.  He  snatched  her  hat  off.  she  snatched  off  his ;  he 
kissoil  her,  she  smacked  his  face  ;  he  put  her  hat  on  his  own 
head,  she  put  on  his  hat;  and  then  they  linked  arms  and 
sung  a  verse  of  tlie  Old  Dutch. 


SANCTUARY.  471 

Glory  reproduced  a  part  of  this  love-passage  in  panto- 
mime, and  Drake  screamed  with  laughter. 

It  was  seven  o'clock  before  they  reached  the  outskirts  of 
London.  By  that  time  a  hamper  on  the  coach  had  been 
emptied  and  the  bottles  thrown  out ;  the  procession  had 
drawn  up  at  a  dozen  villages  on  the  way ;  the  perspiring 
tipsters,  with  whom  "  things  hadn't  panned  out  well,"  had 
forgotten  their  disappointments  and  "  didn't  care  a  tinker's 
cuss  "  ;  every  woman  in  a  barrow  had  her  head-gear  in  con- 
fusion, and  she  was  singing  in  a  drunken  wail.  Neverthe- 
less Di'ake,  who  was  laughing  and  talking  constantly,  said 
it  was  the  quietest  Derby  night  he  had  ever  seen,  and  he 
couldn't  tell  what  things  were  coming  to. 

"Must  be  this  religious  mania,  don't  you  know,''  said 
Lord  Robert,  pointing  to  a  new  and  very  different  scene 
which  they  had  just  then  come  upon. 

It  was  an  open  space  covered  with  people,  who  had  lit 
fires  as  if  intending  to  camp  out  all  night,  and  were  now 
gathered  in  many  groups,  singing  hymns  and  praying.  The 
drunken  wails  from  the  procession  stopped  for  a  moment, 
and  there  was  nothing  heard  but  the  whirring  wheels  and 
the  mournful  notes  of  the  singers.  Then  "  Father  Storm  ! " 
rose  like  the  cry  of  a  cormorant  from  a  thousand  throats  at 
once.  When  the  laughter  that  greeted  the  name  had  sub- 
sided, Betty  said : 

"  'Pon  my  honour,  though,  that  man  must  be  off  his  dot," 
and  the  lady  in  blue  went  into  convulsions  of  hysterical 
giggling.  Drake  looked  uneasy,  and  Lord  Robert  said, 
"  Who  cares  what  an  Elephant  saj^s  ? "  But  Glory  took  no 
notice  now,  save  that  for  a  moment  the  smile  died  off  her 
face. 

It  had  been  agreed,  when  they  cracked  the  head  off  the 
last  bottle,  that  the  company  should  dine  together  at  the 
Cafe  Royal  or  Romano's,  so  they  drove  first  to  Drake's 
chambers  to  brush  the  dust  ofF  and  to  wash  and  rest.  Glory 
was  the  first  to  be  ready,  and  while  waiting  for  the  others 
she  sat  at  the  organ  in  the  sitting-room  and  played  some- 
thing. It  was  the  hymn  they  had  heard  in  the  suburbs. 
At  this  there  was  laughter  from  the  other  side  of  the  wall, 
and  Drake,  who  seemed  unable  to  lose  sight  of  her,  came  to 


472 


THE  CHRISTIAN. 


the  door  of  his  room  in  his  shirt  sleeves.  To  cover  up  her 
confusion  she  sang  a  "  coon  "  song.  The  company  cheered 
her,  and  she  sang  another,  and  yet  another.  Finally  she 
began  My  Mammie,  but  floundered,  broke  down,  and  cried. 

"  Reliearsal,  ten  in  the  morning,"  said  Betty. 

Then  everybody  laughed,  and  while  Drake  busied  him- 
self putting  Glory's  cloak  on  her  shoulders,  he  whispered  : 
"  Wliafs  to  do,  dear  ?    A  bit  off  colour  to-night,  eh  ? " 

''  Be  a  good  boy  and  leave  me  alone,"  she  answered,  and 
then  she  laughed  also. 

They  were  on  the  point  of  setting  out  when  somebody 
said,  "  But  it's  late  for  dinner  now — why  not  supper  at  the 
Corinthian  Club  ? "  At  that  the  other  ladies  cried  '*  Yes  " 
with  one  voice.  There  was  a  dash  of  daring  and  doubtful 
propriety  in  the  proposal. 

"  But  are  you  game  for  it  ? "  said  Drake,  looking  at 
Glory. 

"  Why  not  ? "  she  replied,  with  a  merry  smile,  whereupon 
he  cried  "  All  right,"  and  a  look  came  into  his  eyes  which 
she  had  never  seen  there  before. 

The  Corinthian  "Club  was  in  St.  James's  Square,  a  few 
doors  fi'om  the  residence  of  the  Bishop  of  London.  It  was 
now  dark,  and  as  tliey  passed  through  Jermyn  Street  a  line 
of  poor  children  stood  by  the  poulterer's  shop  at  the  corner 
waiting  for  the  scraps  that  are  thrown  away  at  closing  time. 
York  Street  was  choked  with  hansoms,  but  they  reached 
the  door  at  last.  There  were  the  sounds  of  music  and  danc- 
ing within.  Officials  in  uniform  stood  in  a  hall  examining 
the  tickets  of  membership  and  taking  the  names  of  guests. 
TJie  ladies  removed  their  cloaks,  the  men  hung  up  their 
coats  and  hats,  a  large  door  was  thrown  open,  and  they 
looked  into  the  ballroom.  The  room  was  full  of  people  as 
faultlessly  dressed  as  at  a  house  in  Grosvenor  Square.  But 
the  women  were  all  young  and  pretty,  and  the  men  had  no 
surnames.  A  long  line  of  gilded  youths  in  dress  clothes 
occupied  the  middle  of  the  floor.  Each  held  by  the  waist  the 
young  man  before  him  as  if  he  were  going  to  play  leap-frog. 
"  Hello  there ! "  shouted  one  of  them,  and  the  band  struck 
up.  Then  the  whole  body  kicked  out  right  and  left,  while 
all  sang  a  chorus,  consisting  chiefly  of  "  Tra-la-la-la-la-la  1" 


SANCTUARY.  473 

One  of  them  was  a  lord,  another  a  young  man  who  had 
lately  come  into  a  fortune,  another  a  light  comedian,  another 
belonged  to  a  big  firm  on  the  Stock  Exchange,  another  was 
a  mystery,  and  another  was  one  of  "  the  boys  "  and  lived  by 
fleecing  all  the  rest.  They  were  executing  a  dance  from 
the  latest  burlesque.  "  Hello,  there  !  "  the  conductor  shouted 
again,  and  the  band  stopped. 

Lord  Robert  led  the  way  upstairs.  Pretty  women  in 
light  pinks  and  blues  sat  in  every  corner  of  the  staircase. 
There  was  a  balcony  from  which  you  could  look  down  on 
the  dancers  as  from  the  gallery  of  a  playhouse.  Also  there 
was  an  American  bar  where  women  smoked  cigarettes. 
Lord  Eobert  ordered  supper,  and  when  the  meal  was  an- 
nounced they  went  into  the  supper-room. 

"  Hello  there  !  "  greeted  them  as  they  entered.  At  little 
tables  lit  up  by  pink  candles  sat  small  groups  of  shirt  fronts 
and  butterfly  ties  with  fair  heads  and  pretty  frocks.  Wait- 
ers were  coming  and  going  with  champagne  and  silver 
dishes ;  there  was  a  clatter  of  knives  and  forks,  and  a  jab- 
ber of  voices  and  laughter.  And  all  the  time  there  came  the 
sounds  of  the  band,  with  the  "  Tra-la-la  "  from  the  ballroom 
below. 

Glory  sat  by  Drake.  She  realized  that  she  had  lowered 
herself  in  his  eyes  by  coming  there.  He  was  drinking  a 
good  deal  and  paying  her  endless  compliments.  From 
time  to  time  the  tables  about  them  were  vacated  and  filled 
again  by  similar  shil-t  fronts  and  fair  heads.  People  were 
arriving  from  the  Derby,  and  the  talk  was  of  the  day's 
racing.  Some  of  the  new  arrivals  saluted  Drake,  and  many 
of  them  looked  at  Glory.  "  A  rippin'  good  race,  old  chap- 
pie. Didn't  suit  my  book  exactly,  but  the  bookies  will  have 
smiling  faces  at  Tattersall's  on  Monday." 

A  man  with  a  big  beard  at  the  next  table  pulled  down 
his  white  waistcoat,  lifted  his  glass,  and  said,  "  To  Gloria  ! " 
It  was  her  acquaintance  of  the  race-course. 

"  Who  is  Blue  Beard  ? "  she  asked  in  a  whisper. 

"They  call  him  the  Faro  King,"  said  Drake.  "Made 
all  his  money  by  gambling  in  Paris,  and  now  he  is  a  squire 
with  a  living  in  his  gift." 

Then  over  the  laughter  and  voices,  the  band  and  the 
31 


4U 


THE  CHRISTIAN. 


singing,  with  an  awful  suddenness  there  came  a  crash  of 
thunder.  The  band  and  the  comic  song  stopped,  and  there 
was  a  hush  for  a  moment.     Then  Lord  Robert  said  : 

"Wonder  if  this  is  the  dreadful  storm  that  is  to  over- 
whelm the  nation,  don't  you  know !  " 

That  fell  on  tlie  house  of  frivolity  like  a  second  thunder- 
bolt, and  people  began  to  look  up  with  blanched  faces. 

"  Well,  it  isn't  the  first  time  the  storm  has  howled ;  it's 
been  howling  all  along,"  said  Lord  Robert,  but  nobody 
laughed. 

Presently  the  company  recovered  itself,  the  bands  and 
the  singing  were  heard  again,  louder  and  wilder  than  be- 
fox-e,  the  men  shouted  for  more  champagne,  and  nicknamed 
every  waiter  "  Father  Storm." 

Glory  was  ashamed.  With  her  head  on  her  hand  she 
was  looking  at  the  people  around  when  the  "  Faro  King," 
who  had  been  making  eyes  at  her,  leaned  over  her  shoulder 
and  said  in  a  confidential  Avhisper,  "And  what  is  Gloria 
looking  for  ? " 

"  I  am  looking  for  a  man,''  she  answered.  And  as  the 
big  beard  turned  away  with  "  Oh,  confound  it ! "  she  became 
aware  that  Drake  and  Lord  Robex't  were  at  high  words  from 
opposite  sides  of  the  table. 

"  No,  I  tell  you  no,  no,  no  ! "  said  Drake.  "  Call  him  a  weak- 
ling and  a  fool  and  an  ass,  if  you  will,  but  does  that  explain 
everything  ?  This  is  one  of  the  men  with  the  breath  of  God 
in  him,  and  you  can't  judge  of  him  by  ordinary  standards.'' 

"  Should  think  not,  indeed,  dear  chap,"  said  Lord  Robert. 
"  Common  sense  laughs  at  the  creature." 

"  So  much  tlie  worse  for  common  sense.  When  it  judges 
of  these  i-solated  beings  by  the  standards  of  the  common 
herd  then  conunon  sense  is  always  the  greatest  nonsense." 

"  Oho  !  oho ! "  came  in  several  voices,  but  Drake  paid  no 
attention. 

"  Jesus  Christ  himself  was  mocked  at  and  ridiculed  by  the 
common  sense  of  his  time,  by  his  own  people,  and  even  his 
own  fiimily.  and  his  family  and  people  and  time  have  been 
gibbeted  by  all  the  centuries  that  have  come  after  them.  And 
so  it  has  been  with  evei-y  ardent  soul  since  who  has  taken  up 
his  parable  ami  introduced  into  the  world  a  new  spirit.     The 


SANCTUARY.  475 

world  has  laughed  at  him  and  spat  upon  him,  and,  only  for 
its  fear  of  the  sublime  banner  he  has  borne,  it  would  have 
shut  him  up  in  a  mad-house." 

They  were  strange  words  in  a  strange  place.  Everybody 
listened. 

"  But  these  sombre  giants  are  the  leaders  of  the  world  for 
all  that,  and  one  hour  of  their  Divine  madness  is  worth  more 
to  humanity  than  a  cycle  of  our  sanity.  And  yet  we  deny 
them  friendship  and  love,  and  do  our  best  to  put  them  out  of 
the  pale  of  the  human  family !  We  have  invented  a  new  name 
for  them  too — degenerates — pygmies  and  pigs  as  we  are,  who 
ought  to  go  down  on  our  knees  to  them  with  our  faces  buried 
in  the  dirt !  Gentlemen,"  he  cried,  filling  liis  glass  and  I'ising 
to  his  feet,  "  I  give  you  a  toast — the  health  of  Father  Storm  ! " 

Glory  had  sat  trembling  all  over,  breathing  hard,  blush- 
ing, and  wide-eyed  until  he  had  done.  Then  she  leaped  up 
to  where  he  stood  beside  her,  threw  her  arms  about  his  neck, 
and  kissed  him. 

"And  now  you  ring  clown  quick,  my  dear,"  said  Betty, 
and  everybody  laughed  a  little. 

Drake  was  laughing  with  the  rest,  and  Glory,  who  had 
dropped  back  to  her  seat  in  confused  embarrassment,  was 
trying  to  laugh  too. 

"  Another  bottle  of  fizz  anyway,"  cried  Drake.  He  had 
mistaken  the  meaning  of  Glory's  kiss,  and  was  utterly  intoxi- 
cated by  it.  She  could  have  cried  with'shame  and  rage,  seeing 
he  thought  such  conduct  came  naturally  to  her  and  perhaps 
imagined  it  wasn't  the  first  time  slie  had  done  as  much.  But 
to  cai'ry  off  the  situation  she  laughed  a  good  deal  with  him, 
and  when  the  wine  came  they  jingled  glasses. 

"  I'm  going  to  see  you  home  to-night,"  he  whispered, 
smiling  slyly  and  looking  her  full  in  the  ey£S.  She  shook 
her  head,  but  that  only  provoked  him  to  fresh  effort. 

"  I  must,  I  will — you  shall  allow  me,"  and  he  began  to 
play  with  her  hand  and  ruffle  up  the  lace  that  covered  her 
round  arm. 

Just  then  his  man  Benson,  looking  hot  and  excited, 
came  up  to  him  with  a  message.  Glory  overheard  some- 
thing about  "the  office,"  "the  Secretary,"  and  "Scotland 
Yard."     Then  Drake  turned  to  her  with  a  smile,  over  a  look 


476 


THE  CHRISTIAN. 


of  vexation,  and  said :  "  I'm  sorry,  dear— verj-— I  must  go 
away  for  a  while.    Will  you  stay  here   until   I  return, 

"Take  me  out  and  put  me  in  a  cab,"  said  Glory.  Their 
getting  up  attracted  attention,  and  Lord  Robert  said  : 

"  Is  it,  perhaps,  something  about  that " 

"  It's  nothing,"  said  Drake,  and  they  left  the  room. 

The  band  in  the  ballroom  was  still  playing  the  dance 
out  of  the  burlesque,  and  half  a  hundred  voices  were  shout- 
ing "  Tra-la-la-la  "  as  Glory  stepped  into  a  hansom. 

"  I'll  follow  on,  though,"  whispered  Drake  with  a  merry 
smile. 

"  We  shall  all  be  in  bed,  and  the  house  locked  up 

How  magnificent  you  were  to-night!" 

"  I  couldn't    see    the    man  trodden  on   when    he   was 

down But  how  lovely  you've  looked   to-day,  Glory  I 

I'll  get  in  to-night  if  I  have  to  ring  up  Liza  or  break  down 
the  door  for  it  I  " 

As  the  cab  crossed  Trafalgar  Square  it  had  to  draw  up 
for  a  procession  of  people  coming  up  Parliament  Street 
singing  hymns.  Another  and  more  disorderly  procession 
of  pet^ple,  decorated  Avith  oak  leaves  and  hawthorns  and 
singing  a  music-hall  song,  came  up  and  collided  with  it. 
A  line  of  police  broke  up  both  processions,  and  the  hansom 
passed  through. 


VIII. 

On  entering  the  drawing-room  John  Storm  was  seized 
with  a  weird  feeling  of  dread.  The  soft  air  seemed  to  be 
filled  with  Glory's  presence  and  her  very  breath  to  live  in 
it  On  the  side-table  a  lamp  was  burning  under  a  warm  red 
shade.  A  heap  of  petty  vanities  lay  about— articles  of  silver, 
little  trinkets,  fans,  feathers,  and  fiowers.  His  footsteps  on 
tlie  soft  carpet  made  no  noise.  It  was  all  so  unlike  the 
place  he  had  come  from,  his  own  bare  chamber  under  the 
church ! 

He  could  have  fancied  that  Glory  had  that  moment  left 
the  i-ooiu.   The  door  of  a  little  ebony  cabinet  stood  half  open 


SANCTUARY.  477 

and  he  could  see  inside.  Its  lower  shelves  were  full  of  shoes 
and  little  dainty  slippers,  some  of  them  of  leather,  some  of 
satin,  some  black,  some  red,  some  white.  They  touched  him 
with  an  indescribable  tenderness  and  he  turned  his  eyes 
away.  Under  the  lamp  lay  a  pair  of  white  gloves.  One  of 
them  was  flat  and  had  not  been  -worn,  but  the  other  was 
filled  out  with  the  impression  of  a  little  hand.  He  took  it 
up  and  laid  it  across  his  own  big  palm,  and  another  wave  of 
tenderness  broke  over  him. 

On  the  mantelpiece  there  were  many  photographs.  Most 
of  them  were  of  Gloi\y  and  some  were  very  beautiful,  with 
their  gleaming  and  glistening  eyes  and  their  curling  and 
waving  hair.  One  looked  even  voluptuous  with  its  parted 
lips  and  smiling  mouth ;  but  another  was  di£Ferent — it  was 
so  sweet,  so  gay,  so  artless.  He  thought  it  must  belong  to 
an  earlier  period,  for  the  dress  was  such  as  she  used  to  wear 
in  the  days  when  he  knew  her  first,  a  simple  jersey  and  a 
sailor's  stocking  cap.  Ah,  those  days  that  were  gone,  with 
their  innocence  and  joy  !  Glory  !  His  bright,  his  beautiful 
Glory ! 

His  emotion  was  depriving  him  of  the  free  use  of  his 
faculties,  and  he  began  to  ask  himself  why  he  was  waiting 
there.  At  the  next  instant  came  the  thought  of  the  awful 
thing  he  had  come  to  do  and  it  seemed  monstrous  and  im- 
possible. "  I'll  go  away,"'  he  told  himself,  and  he  turned  his 
face  toward  the  door. 

On  a  what-not  at  the  door  side  of  the  room  another 
photograph  stood  in  a  glass  stand.  His  back  had  been  to  it, 
and  the  soft  light  of  the  lamp  left  a  great  part  of  the  room 
in  obscurity,  but  he  saw  it  now,  and  something  bitter  that 
lay  hidden  at  the  bottom  of  his  heart  rose  to  his  throat.  It 
was  a  portrait  of  Drake,  and  at  the  sight  of  it  he  laughed 
savagely  and  sat  down. 

How  long  he  sat  he  never  knew.  To  the  soul  in  torment 
there  is  no  such  thing  as  time ;  an  hour  is  as  much  as 
eternity  and  eternity  is  no  more  than  an  hour.  His  head 
was  buried  in  his  arms  on  the  table  and  he  was  a  prey  to 
anguish  and  doubt.  At  one  time  he  told  himself  that  God 
did  not  send  men  to  commit  murder ;  at  the  next  that  this 
was  not  murder  but  sacrifice.     Then  a  mocking  voice  in  his 


478 


THE  CHRISTIAN. 


ears  seemed  to  say,  "  But  the  world  will  call  it  murder  and 
the  law  will  punish  you."  To  that  he  answered  in  his  heart : 
"  When  I  leave  this  house  I  will  deliver  myself  up.  I  will 
go  to  the  nearest  police  court  and  say  'Take  me,  I  have 
done  mj'  duty  in  the  eye  of  God,  but  committed  a  crime  in 
the  eye  of  my  country.'"  And  when  the  voice  replied, 
"  That  will  only  lead  to  your  own  death  also,"  he  thought, 
"  Death  is  a  gain  to  those  who  die  for  their  cause,  and  my 
death  will  be  a  protest  against  the  degradation  of  women,  a 
witness  against  the  men  who  make  them  the  creatures  of 
their  pleasure,  their  playthings,  their  victims,  and  their 
slaves."  Thinking  so,  he  found  a  strange  thrill  in  the  idea 
that  all  the  world  would  hear  of  what  he  had  done.  "  But 
I  will  say  a  mass  for  her  soul  in  the  morning,"  he  told  him- 
self, and  a  chill  came  over  him  and  his  heart  grew  cold  as  a 
stone. 

Then  he  lifted  his  head  and  listened.  The  room  was 
quiet,  there  was  not  a  sound  in  the  gardens  of  the  Inn,  and, 
through  a  window  which  was  partly  open,  he  could  hear 
the  monotonous  murmur  of  the  streets  outside.  A  great 
silence  seemed  to  have  fallen  on  London— a  silence  more 
awful  than  all  the  noise  and  confused  clamour  of  the  even- 
ing. "  It  must  be  late."  he  thought ;  "  it  must  be  the  middle 
of  the  night."  Then  the  thought  came  to  him  that  perhaps 
Glory  would  not  come  home  that  night  at  all,  and  in  a  sud- 
den outburst  of  pent-up  feeling  his  heart  cried,  "  Thank  God ' 
Thank  God ! " 

He  had  said  it  aloud  and  the  sound  of  his  voice  in  the 
silent  room  awakened  all  his  faculties.  Suddenly  he  was 
aware  of  other  sounds  outside.  There  was  a  rumble  of 
wheels  and  the  rattle  of  a  hansom.  The  hansom  came 
nearer  and  nearer.  It  stopped  in  the  outside  courtyard. 
Tliere  was  the  noise  of  a  curb-chain  as  if  the  horse  were 
shaking  its  head.  The  doors  of  the  hansom  opened  with  a 
creak  and  banged  back  on  their  spring.  A  voice,  a  woman's 
voice,  said  "  Good-night!  "  and  another  voice,  a  man's  voice, 
answered,  "Good-niglit  and  thank  you,  miss!"  Then  the 
cab  wheels  tiu-ned  and  went  ofi'.  All  his  senses  seemed  to 
have  gone  mto  his  ears,  and  in  the  silence  of  that  quiet  place 
b-  ImmhI  .-verything.     He  rose  to  his  feet  and  stood  waiting. 


SANCTUARY.  479 

After  a  moment  there  was  the  sound  of  a  key  in  the  lock 
of  the  door  below  ;  the  rustle  of  a  woman's  dress  coming  up 
the  stairs,  an  odour  of  perfume  in  the  air,  an  atmosphere  of 
freshness  and  health,  and  then  the  door  of  the  room  which 
liad  been  ajar  was  swung  open  and  there  on  the  threshold 
with  her  languid  and  tired  but  graceful  movements  was 
she  herself,  Glory.  Then  his  head  turned  giddy  and  he 
could  neither  hear  nor  see. 

When  Glory  saw  him  standing  by  the  lamp,  wath  his 
deadly  pale  face,  she  stood  a  moment  in  speechless  astonish- 
ment, and  passed  her  hand  across  her  eyes  as  if  to  wipe  out 
a  vision.  After  that  she  clutched  at  a  chair  and  made  a 
faint  cry. 

"  Oh,  is  it  you  ? ''  she  said  in  a  voice  which  she  strove  to 
control.  "  How  you  frightened  me  !  Whoever  would  have 
thought  of  seeing  you  here  !  " 

He  was  trying  to  answer,  but  his  tongue  would  not  obey 
him,  and  his  silence  alarmed  her. 

"  I  suppose  Liza  let  you  in — where  is  Liza  ?  " 

"  Gone  to  bed,"  he  said  in  a  thick  voice. 

"  And  Rosa — have  you  seen  Rosa  ? "  ' 

"No." 

"Of  course  not !  How  could  you  ?  She  must  be  at  the 
office,  and  won't  be  back  for  hours.  So  you  see  we  are  quite 
alone ! " 

She  did  not  know  why  she  said  that,  and,  in  spite  of  the 
voice  which  she  tried  to  render  cheerful,  her  lip  trembled. 
Then  she  laughed,  though  there  was  nothing  to  laugh  at,  and 
down  at  the  bottom  of  her  heart  she  was  afraid.  But  she 
began  moving  about,  trying  to  make  herself  easy  and  pre- 
tending not  to  be  alarmed. 

"  Well,  won't  you  help  me  off  with  my  cloak  ?  No  ? 
Then  I  must  do  it  for  myself  I  suppose." 

Throwing  oS  her  outer  things,  she  walked  across 
the  room  and  sat  down  on  the  sofa  near  to  where  he 
stood. 

"  How  tired  I  am !  It's  been  such  a  day !  Once  is 
enough  for  that  sort  of  thing,  though  !  Now  where  do  you 
think  I've  been  ? " 

"  I  know  whex'e  you've  been,  Glory— I  saw  you  there." 


^gQ  THE  CHRISTIAN. 


"You?     Really?     Then  perhaps  it  teas  you  who 

Was  it  you  in  the  hollow  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

He  had  moved  to  avoid  contact  with  her,  but  now,  stand- 
ing by  the  mantelpiece  looking  into  her  face,  he  could  not 
help  recognising  in  the  fashionable  woman  at  his  feet  the 
features  of  the  girl  once  so  dear  to  him,  the  brilliant  eyes, 
the  long  lashes,  the  twitching  of  the  eyelids,  and  the  restless 
movement  of  the  moath.  Then  the  wave  of  tenderness 
came  sweeping  over  him  again  and  he  felt  as  if  the  ground 
were  slipping  beneath  his  feet. 

"  Will  you  say  your  prayers  to-night,  Glory  ? "  he  said. 

"  Why  not  ? "  she  answered,  trying  to  laugh. 

"  Then  why  not  say  them  now,  my  child  ?  " 

"  But  why  ? " 

He  had  made  her  tremble  all  over,  but  she  got  up,  walked 
straight  across  to  him,  looked  intently  into  his  face  for  a 
moment,  and  then  said :  "  What  is  the  matter  ?  Why  are 
you  sp  pale  ?    You  are  not  well,  John  !  " 

"  No,  I'm  not  well  either."  he  answered. 

"John,  John,  what  does  it  all  mean?  What  are  you 
thinking  of  ?    Why  have  you  come  here  to-night  ? " 

"  To  save  your  soul,  my  child.  It  is  in  great,  great 
peril." 

At  first  she  took  this  for  the  common,  everyday  langviage 
of  the  devotee,  but  another  look  into  his  face  banished  that 
interpretation,  and  her  fear  rose  to  terror.  Nevertheless  she 
talked  lightly,  hardly  knowing  what  she  said,  "Am  I,  then, 
so  very  wicked  ?  Surely  Heaven  doesn't  want  me  yet,  John, 
Some  day  I  trust — I  hope " 

"  To-night,  to-night — now  !  " 

TheTi  her  cheeks  turned  pale  and  her  lips  became  white 
and  bloodless.  She  had  returned  to  the  sofa,  and  half  rose 
from  it,  then  sat  back,  stretching  out  one  hand  as  if  to  ward 
off  a  blow,  but  still  keeping  her  eyes  riveted  on  his  face. 
Once  she  looked  round  to  the  door  and  tried  to  cry  out,  but 
her  voice  would  not  answer  her. 

This  speechless  fright  lasted  only  a  moment.  Then  she 
was  iK'rseif  again,  and  looked  fearlessly  up  at  him.  She  had 
the  full  use  of  her  intellect,  and  her  quick  instinct  went  to 


SANCTUARY.  481 

the  root  of  things.  "  This  is  the  madness  of  jealousy,"  she 
thought.  "  There  is  only  one  way  to  deal  with  it.  If  I  cry 
out — if  I  show  that  I  am  afraid — if  I  irritate  him,  it  will 
soon  be  over."  She  told  hei'self  in  a  moment  that  she  must 
try  gentleness,  tenderness,  reason,  affection,  love. 

Trembling  from  head  to  foot,  she  stepped  up  to  him  again, 
and  began  softly  and  sweetly  trying  to  explain  herself. 
"  John,  dear  John,  if  you  see  me  with  certain  people  and.  in 
certain  places  you  must  not  think  from  that " 

But  he  broke  in  upon  her  with  a  torrent  of  words.  "  I 
can't  think  of  it  at  all,  Glory.  When  I  look  ahead  I  see 
nothing  but  shame  and  misery  and  degradation  for  you  in 
the  future.  That  man  is  destroying  you  body  and  soul.  He 
is  leading  you  on  to  the  devil  and  hell  and  damnation,  and 
I  can  not  stand  by  and  see  it  done  I " 

"  Believe  me,  John,  you  are  mistaken,  quite  mistaken." 
But,  with  a  look  of  sombre  fury,  he  cried,  "  Can  you  deny 
it?" 

"  I  can  protect  and  care  for  myself,  John." 

"  With  that  man's  words  in  your  ears,  still  can  you  deny 
it?" 

Suddenly  she  remembered  Drake's  last  whisper  as  she 
got  into  the  hansom,  and  she  covered  her  face  with  her 
hands. 

"  You  can't !  It  is  the  truth  !  The  man  is  following  you 
to  ruin  you,  and  you  know  it.  You've  known  it  from  the 
first,  therefore  you  deserve  all  that  can  ever  come  to  you. 
Do  you  know  what  you  are  guilty  of  ?  You  are  guilty  of 
soul-suicide.  What  is  the  suicide  of  the  body  to  the  suicide 
of  the  soul  ?  What  is  the  crime  of  the  poor  broken  creature 
who  only  chooses  death  and  the  grave  before  starvation  or 
shame,  compared  to  the  sin  of  the  wretched  woman  who 
murders  her  soul  for  sake  of  the  lusts  and  vanities  of  the 
world  ?  The  law  of  man  may  punish  the  one,  but  the  venge- 
ance of  God  is  waiting  for  the  other." 

She  was  crying  behind  her  hands,  and,  in  spite  of  the  fury 
into  which  he  had  lashed  himself,  a  great  pity  took  hold  of 
him.  He  felt  as  if  everything  were  slipping  away  froni 
him,  and  he  was  trying  to  stand  on  an  avalanche.  But  he 
told  himself  that  he  would  not  waver,  that  he  would  hold  to 


^g2  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

his  purpose,  that  he  would  stand  firm  as  a  rock.  Heaving  a 
deep  sigh,  he  walked  to  and  fro  across  the  room. 

"  O  Glorv,  Glory  !  Can  t  you  understand  what  it  is  to 
me  to  be  the  messenger  of  God's  judgment  ? " 

She  gasped  for  breath,  and  what  had  been  a  vague  sur- 
mise became  a  certainty— thinking  he  was  God's  avenger, 
yet  with  nothing  but  a  poor  spasm  of  jealousy  in  his  heart, 
he  had  come  with  a  fearful  purpose  to  perform. 

"  I  did  what  I  could  in  other  ways  and  it  was  all  in  vain. 
Time  after  time  I  tried  to  save  you  from  these  dangers,  but 
you  would  not  listen.  I  was  ready  for  any  change,  any 
sacrifice.  Once  I  would  have  given  up  all  the  world  for 
you.  Glory— you  know  that  quite  well — friends,  kinsmen, 
country,  evei'ything,  even  my  work  and  my  duty,  and,  but 
for  the  grace  of  God,  God  himself  ! '' 

But  his  tenderness  broke  again  into  a  headlong  torrent 
of  reproach.  "  You  failed  me,  didn't  you  ?  At  the  last  mo- 
ment, too — the  very  last !  Not  content  with  the  suicide  of 
your  own  soul,  you  must  attempt  to  murder  the  soul  of 
another.  Do  you  know  what  that  is  ?  That  is  the  unpar- 
donable sin !  You  are  crying,  aren't  you  ?  Why  are  you 
crying  ? "  But  even  while  he  said  this  something  told  him 
that  all  he  was  waiting  for  was  that  her  beautiful  eyes 
should  be  raised  and  their  splendid  light  flash  upon  him 
again. 

"  But  that  is  all  over  now.  It  was  a  blunder,  and  the 
breach  between  us  is  irreparable.  I  am  better  as  I  am — far, 
fur  better.  Without  friends  or  kin  or  country,  consecrated 
for  life,  cut  off  from  the  world,  separate,  alone  ! " 

She  knew  that  her  moment  had  come,  and  that  she  must 
vanquish  this  man  and  turn  him  from  his  purpose,  whatever 
it  was,  by  the  only  weapon  a  woman  could  use — his  love  of 
her.  "  I  do  not  deny  that  you  have  a  right  to  be  angry  vnth. 
me,"  she  said,  "  but  don't  think  that  I  have  not  given  up 
something  too.  At  the  time  you  speak  of,  w-hen  I  chose  this 
life  and  refused  to  go  with  you  to  the  South  Seas,  I  sacrificed 
a  good  deal— I  sacrificed  love.  Do  you  think  I  didn't  realize 
wluit  that  meant  ?  That  whatever  tlie  pleasure  and  delight 
my  art  might  bring  me,  and  the  flattery,  and  the  fame,  and 
IIk'  applause.  Hut.'  w.'vc  joys  I  was  never  to  know— the  hap- 


SANCTUARY.  483 

piness  that  every  poor  woman  may  feel,  though  she  isn't 
clever  at  all,  and  the  world  knows  nothing  about  her — the 
happiness  of  being  a  wife  and  a  mother,  and  of  holding  her 
place  in  life,  however  humble  she  is  and  simple  and  un- 
known, and  of  linking  the  generations  each  to  each.  And, 
though  the  world  has  been  so  good  to  me,  do  you  think  I 
have  ever  ceased  to  regret  that  ?  Do  you  think  I  don't  re- 
member it  sometimes  when  the  house  rises  at  me.  or  when  I 
am  coming  home,  or  perhaps  when  I  awake  in  the  middle 
of  the  night  ?  And  notwithstanding  all  this  success  with 
which  the  world  has  crowned  me,  do  you  think  I  don't  hun- 
ger sometimes  for  what"  success  can  never  buy — the  love  of 
a  good  man  who  would  love  me  with  all  his  soul  and  his 
strength  and  everything  that  is  his  ? " 

Out  of  a  dry  and  husky  throat  John  Storm  answered  :  "  I 
would  rather  die  a  thousand,  thousand  deaths  than  touch  a 
hair  of  your  head.  Glory.  .  .  .  But  God's  will  is  his  will!" 
he  added,  quivering  and  trembling.  The  compulsion  of  a 
great  passion  was  drawing  him,  but  he  struggled  hard  against 
it.  "  And  then  this  success — you  cling  to  it  nevertheless  ! " 
he  cried,  with  a  forced  laugh. 

"  Yes,  I  cling  to  it,"  she  said,  wiping  away  the  tears  that 
had  begun  to  fall.  "  I  can  not  give  it  up,  I  can  not,  I  can 
not ! " 

"  Then  what  is  the  worth  of  your  repentance  ? " 

"  It  is  not  repentance — it  is  what  you  said  it  was — in  this 
room — long  ago.  .  .  .  We  are  of  different  natures,  John 
— that  is  the  real  trouble  between  us,  now  and  always 
has  been.  But  whether  we  like  it  or  not,  our  lives  are 
wrapped  up  together  for  all  that.  We  can't  do  without 
each  other.  God  makes  men  and  women  like  that  some- 
times." 

There  was  a  piteous  smile  on  his  face.  "  I  never  doubted 
your  feeling  for  me,  Glory.  No,  not  even  when  you  hurt 
me  most." 

"  And  if  God  made  us  so " 

"I  shall  never  forgive  myself.  Glory,  though  Heaven 
itself  forgives  me  ! " 

"  If  God  makes  us  love  each  other  in  spite  of  every  bar- 
rier that  divides  us " 


4^54  THE  CHR'ISTIAN. 

"I  shall  never  know  another  happy  hour  in  this  life, 
Gloi:y— never ! " 

"  Then  why  should  we  struggle  ?  It  is  our  fate  and  we 
can  not  conquer  it.  You  can't  give  up  your  life,  John,  and  I 
can't  give  up  mine  ;  but  our  hearts  are  one." 

Her  voice  sang  like  music  in  his  ears,  and  something  in 
his  aching  heart  was  saying  :  "  What  are  the  laws  we  make 
for  ourselves  compared  to  the  laws  God  makes  for  us  ? " 
Suddenly  he  felt  something  warm.  It  was  Glory's  breath 
on  his  hand.  A  fragrance  like  incense  seemed  to  envelop 
him.  He  gasped  as  if  suffocating,  and  sat  down  on  the 
sofa. 

"  You  are  wrong,  dear,  if  you  think  I  care  for  the  man 
you  speak  of.  He  has  been  very  good  to  me  and  helped  me 
in  my  career,  but  he  is  nothing  to  me — nothing  whatever — 
But  we  are  such  old  friends,  John  ?  It  seems  impossible  to 
remember  a  time  when  we  were  not  old  chums,  you  and  I ! 
Sometimes  I  dream  of  those  dear  old  days  in  the  '  lil  oilan' ! 
Aw,  they  were  ter'ble — just  ter'ble !  Do  you  remember  the 
boat — the  Gloria — do  you  remember  her?"  (He  clinched 
his  hands  a.s  though  to  hold  on  to  his  purpose,  but  it  was 
slipping  through  his  fingers  like  sand.)  "  What  times 
they  were  !  Coming  round  the  castle  of  a  summer  evening 
when  the  bay  and  the  sky  were  like  two  sheets  of  silvered 
glass  looking  into  each  other,  and  you  and  I  singing  'John 
Peel ' "  (in  a  quavering  voice  she  8ang  a  bar  or  two)  :  '"D'ye 
ken  John  Peel  with  his  coat  so  gay  ?  D'ye  ken  John 
Peel " Do  you  remember  it,  John  ? " 

She  was  .sobbing  and  laughing  by  turns.  It  was  her  old 
self,  and  the  cruel  years  seemed  to  roll  back.  But  still  he 
struggled.  "  What  is  the  love  of  the  body  to  the  love  of  the 
soul  ? "  he  told  himself. 

"You  wore  flannels  then,  and  I  was  in  a  white  jersey- 
like  tills,  see,"  and  she  snatched  up  from  the  mantelpiece 
the  photograph  he  had  been  looking  at.  "  I  got  up  my  first 
act  in  imitation  of  it,  and  sometimes  in  the  middle  of  a  scene 
—such  a  jolly  scene,  too— my  mind  goes  back  to  that  sweet 
old  time  and  I  bur.st  out  crying." 

He  i)ushed  the  photograph  away.  "  Why  do  you  remind 
me  of  those  days  ?  "  he  said.     "  Is  it  only  to  make  me  realize 


SAXCTUARY.  485 

the  change  in  you  ? "  But  even  at  that  moment  the  won- 
derful eyes  pierced  him  through  and  thx'ough. 

"Am  I  so  much  changed,  John  ?  Am  I  ?  N(  ,  no,  dear! 
It  is  only  my  hair  done  differently.  See,  see ! "  and  with 
trembling  fingers  she  tore  her  hair  from  its  knot.  It  fell  in 
clusters  over  her  shoulders  and  about  her  face.  He  wanted 
to  lay  his  hand  on  it,  and  he  turned  to  her  and  then  turned 
away,  fighting  with  himself  as  with  an  enemy. 

"  Or  is  it  this  old  rag  of  lace  that  is  so  unlike  my  jersey  ? 
There — there ! "  she  cried,  tearing  the  lace  from  her  neck, 
and  throwing  it  on  the  floor  and  trampling  upon  it.  "  Look 
at  me  now,  John — look  at  me  ?  Am  I  not  the  same  as  ever  ? 
Why  don't  you  look  ? " 

She  was  fighting  for  her  life.  He  started  to  his  feet  and 
came  to  her  with  his  teeth  set  and  his  pupils  fixed.  "  Tliis 
is  only  the  devil  tempting  me.     Say  your  j)rayers,  child ! " 

He  grasped  her  left  hand  with  his  right.  His  grip  almost 
overtaxed  her  strength  and  she  felt  faint.  In  an  explosion 
of  emotion  the  insane  frenzy  for  destroying  had  come  upon 
him  again.  He  longed  to  give  his  feelings  physical  expres- 
sion. 

"  Say  them,  say  them  ! ''  he  cried.  "  God  sent  me  to  kill 
you,  Grlory  1 " 

A  sensation  of  terror  and  of  triumph  came  over  her  at 
once.  She  half  closed  her  eyes  and  threw  her  other  arm 
around  his  neck.     "  No,  but  to  love  me  I — Kiss  me,  John  !" 

Then  a  cry  came  from  him  like  that  of  a  man  flinging 
himself  over  a  precipice.  He  threw  liis  arms  about  her,  and 
her  disordered  hair  fell  over  his  face. 


IX. 

"  I  THOUGHT  it  was  God's  voice — it  was  the  devil's ! " 
John  Storm  was  creeping  like  a  thief  through  the  streets 
of  London  in  the  dark  hours  before  the  dawn.  It  was  a 
peaceful  night  after  the  thunderstorm  of  the  evening  before. 
A  few  large  stars  had  come  out,  a  clear  moon  was  shining, 
and  the  air  was.  quiet  after  the  cries,  the  crackling  tumult, 
and  all  the  fury  of  human  throats.     There  was  only  the  swift 


^gg  i  THE  CHKISTIAN. 


rattling  of  ,mail  cars  running  to  the  Post  Office,  the  heavy 
clank  of  cpuntry  carts  crawling  to  Coveut  Garden,  the 
measured  '^i-ead  of  policemen,  and  the  muddled  laughter  of 
drunken  iiien  and  women  hy  the  coffee  stands  at  the  street 
corner^^  "  'Ow's  the  deluge,  myte  ?  Not  come  off  yet  ? 
Well./give  us  a  cup  of  cawfee  on  the  strength  of  it.'' 

li^ seemed  as  if  eyes  looked  down  on  him  from  the  dark 
sky  and  pierced  him  through  and  through.  His  whole  life 
had  been  an  imposture  from  the  first — his  quarrel  with  his 
father,  his  taking  Orders,  his  entering  the  monastery  and 
his  leaving  it,  his  crusade  in  Soho,  his  intention  of  follow- 
ing Fatlier  Damien,  his  predictions  at  Westminster — all,  all 
had  been  false,  and  the  expression  of  a  lie  !  He  was  a  sham, 
a  mockery,  a  whited  sepulchre,  and  had  grossly  sinned 
against  the  light  and  against  God. 

But  the  spiritual  disillusion  had  come  at  last,  and  it  had 
revealed  him  to  himself  at  an  awful  depth  of  self-dece]jtion. 
Thinking  in  his  pride  and  arrogance  he  was  the  divine  mes- 
senger, the  avenger,  the  man  of  God,  he  had  set  out  to  shed 
blood  like  any  wretched  ci'iminal,  any  jealous  murderer  who 
was  driven  along  by  devilish  passion.  How  the  devil  had 
played  with  him  too! — with  him.  who  was  dedicated  by  the 
most  solemn  and  sacred  vows  !  And  he  had  been  as  stubble 
before  the  wind— as  chaff  that  the  storm  carrieth  away  ! 

With  such  feelings  of  poignant  anguish  he  plodded 
through  the  echoing  streets.  Mechanically  he  made  his 
way  back  to  Westminster.  By  the  time  he  got  there  the 
moon  and  stars  had  gone  and  the  chill  of  daybreak  was  in 
the  air.  He  saw  and  heard  nothing,  but  as  he  crossed  Broad 
Sanctuary  a  line  of  mounted  police  trotted  past  him  with 
their  swords  clanking. 

It  was  not  yet  daylight  when  he  knocked  at  the  door  of 
liis  chanibers  under  the  church. 

"  Who's  there  ? "  came  in  a  fierce  whisper. 

"  Open  the  door,"  he  said  in  a  spiritless  voice. 

The  door  was  opened,  and  Brother  Andrew,  with  the 
aircctioiiate  whine  of  a  dog  who  has  been  snarling  at  his 
master  in  the  dark,  said :  "  Oh,  is  it  you.  Father  ?  I  thought 
you  were  gone.  Did  you  meet  them  ?  They've  been  search- 
ing for  you  everywhere  all  night  long." 


SANCTUARY.  48Y 

He  still  spoke  in  whispers,  as  if  some  one  had  been  ill. 
*'  I  can't  light  up.  They'd  be  sure  to  see  and  perhaps  come 
back.  They'll  come  in  the  moi'ning  in  any  case.  Oh,  it's 
terrible  !  Worse  than  ever  now  !  Haven't  you  heard  what 
has  happened  ?    Somebody  has  been  killed  !  " 

John  was  struggling  to  listen,  but  everything  seemed  to 
be  happening  a  long  way  off. 

"Well,  not  killed  exactly,  but  badly  hurt,  and  taken  to 
the  hospital." 

It  was  Charlie  Wilkes.  He  had  iusulted  the  name  of  the 
Father,  and  Pincher,  the  pawnbroker,  had  knocked  him 
down.  His  head  had  struck  against  the  curb,  and  he  had 
been  picked  up  insensible.  Then  the  police  had  come  and 
Pincher  had  been  taken  off  to  the  police  station. 

"But  it's  my  mother  I'm  thinking  of,"  said  Brother  An- 
drew, and  he  brushed  his  sleeve  across  his  eyes.  "  You  must 
get  away  at  once.  Father.  They'll  lay  everything  on  you. 
What's  to  be  done  ?  Let  me  think  !  Let  me  think  !  How 
my  head  is  going  round  and  round  !  There's  a  train  from 
Euston  to  the  north  at  five  in  the  morning,  isn't  there  ? 
You  must  catch  that.  Don't  speak.  Father  !  Don't  say  you 
won't." 

"I  will  go, '  said  John  with  a  look  of  utter  dejection. 

The  change  that  had  come  over  him  since  the  night  be- 
fore startled  the  lay  brother.  "  But  I  suppose  you've  been 
out  all  niglit.  How  tired  you  look !  Can  I  get  you  any- 
thing ? " 

John  did  not  answer,  and  the  lay  brother  brought  som« 
brown  bread  and  coaxed  him  to  eat  a  little  of  it.     The  day    "" 
was  beginning  to  dawn. 

"  Now  you  must  go.  Father." 

"  And  you,  my  lad  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  can  take  care  of  myself." 

"  Go  back  to  the  Brotherhood ;  take  the  dog  with 
you " 

"  The  dog !  "  Brother  Andrew  seemed  to  be  about  to  say 
something ;  but  he  checked  himself,  and  with  a  wild  look 
he  muttered  :  "  Oh,  I  know  what  Fll  do.     Good-bye  I  " 

•'  Good-bye  ! "  said  John,  and  then  the  broken  man  was 
back  in  the  streets. 


488 


THE  CHRISTIAN. 


His  nervous  system  had  been  exhausted  by  the  events  of 
the  nio-ht,  and  when  he  entered  the  railway  station  he  could 
scarcely  put  one  foot  before  another.  "  Looks  as  if  he'd  had 
enough,"  said  somebody  behind  him.  He  found  an  empty 
carriage  and  took  his  seat  in  the  corner.  A  kind  of  stupor 
had  come  over  his  faculties  and  he  could  neither  think 
nor  feel. 

Three  or  four  young  men  and  boys  were  sorting  and 
folding  newspapers  at  a  counter  that  stood  on  trestles  be- 
fore the  closed-up  bookstall.  A  placard  slipped  from  the 
fingers  of  one  of  them  and  fell  on  to  the  floor.  John  saw 
his  own  name  in  monster  letters,  and  he  began  to  ask  him- 
self what  he  was  doing.  Was  he  running  away  ?  It  was 
cowardly,  it  was  contemptible  !  And  then  it  was  so  useless  ! 
He  might  go  to  the  ends  of  the  earth,  yet  he  could  not  es- 
cape the  only  enemy  it  was  worth  while  to  fly  from.  That 
enemy  was  himself. 

Suddenly  he  remembered  that  he  had  not  taken  his 
ticket,  and  he  got  out  of  the  train.  But  instead  of  going  to 
the  ticket  office  he  stood  aside  and  tried  to  think  what  he 
ought  to  do.  Then  there  was  confusion  and  noise,  people 
were  hurrying  past  him,  somebody  was  calling  to  him,  and 
finally  the  engine  whistled  and  the  smoke  rose  to  the  roof. 
When  he  came  to  himself  the  train  was  gone  and  he  was 
standing  on  the  platform  alone. 

"  But  what  am  I  to  do  ? "  he  asked  himself. 

It  was  a  lovely  summer  morning  and  the  streets  were 
empty  and  quiet.  Little  by  little  they  became  populous  and 
noisj',  and  at  length  he  was  walking  in  a  crowd.  It  was 
nine  o'clock  by  this  time,  and  he  was  in  the  Whitechapel 
road,  going  along  with  a  motley  troop  of  Jews,  Polish  Jews, 
Germans,  German  Jews,  and  all  the  many  tribes  of  Cock- 
neydom.  Two  costers  behind  him  were  talking  and  laugh- 
ing. 

"  Lor'  blesh  you,  it's  jest  abart  enneff  to  myke  a  corpse 
laugh." 

"Ain't  it?  An  acquyntince  uv  mine— d'ye  know  Jow 
'Awkins  ?  Him  as  kep'  the  frahd  fish  shop  ofi-"  of  Flower 
and  Dean.  Yus  i  Well,  lie  sold  his  bit  uv  biziness  lahst 
week  for  a  .song,  thinkin'  the  world  was  acomin'  to  a  end, 


SANCTUARY.  489 

and  this  mornin'  I  meets  'im  on  the  'Ovvben  Viacleck  lookin' 
as  if  'e'd  'ad  the  smallpox  or  semthink  !  " 

John  Storm  had  scarcely  heard  them.  He  had  a  sti'ange 
feeling  that  everything  was  happening  hundreds  of  miles 
away. 

"  What  am  I  to  do  ?  "  he  asked  himself  again.  Between 
twelve  and  one  o'clock  he  was  back  in  the  city,  walking 
aimlessly  on  and  on.  He  did  not  choose  the  unfrequented 
thoroughfares,  and  when  people  looked  into  his  face  he 
thought,  "  If  anybody  asks  me  who  I  am  I'll  tell  him."  It 
was  eight  hours  since  he  had  eaten  anything,  and  he  felt 
weak  and  faint.  Coming  upon  a  coffee-house,  he  went  in 
and  ordered  food.  The  place  was  full  of  young  clerks  at 
their  midday  meal.  Most  of  them  were  reading  newspapers 
which  they  had  folded  and  propped  up  on  the  tables  before 
them,  but  two  who  sat  near  were  talking. 

"  These  predictions  of  the  end  of  the  world  are  a  mania, 
a  monomania,  which  recurs  at  regular  intervals  of  the 
world's  history,"  said  one.  He  was  a  little  man  with  a 
turned-up  nose. 

"  But  the  strange  thing  is  that  peo]3le  go  on  believing 
them,"  said  his  companion. 

"  That's  not  strange  at  all.  This  big,  idiotic,  amphorous 
London  has  no  sense  of  humour.  See  how  industriously  it 
has  been  engaged  for  the  last  month  in  the  noble  art  of 
making  a  fool  of  itself  !  "  And  then  he  looked  around  at 
John  Storm,  as  if  proud  of  his  tall  language. 

John  did  not  listen.  He  knew  that  everybody  was  talk- 
ing about  him,  yet  the  matter  did  not  seem  to  concern  him 
now,  but  to  belong  to  some  other  existence  which  his  soul 
had  had. 

At  length  an  idea  came  to  him  and  he  thought  he  knew 
what  he  ought  to  do.  He  ought  to  go  to  the  Brotherhood 
and  ask  to  be  taken  back.  But  not  as  a  son  this  time,  only 
as  a  servant,  to  scour  and  scrub  to  the  end  of  his  life.  There 
used  to  be  a  man  to  sweep  out  the  church  and  ring  the 
church  bell — he  might  be  allowed  to  do  menial  work  like 
that.  He  had  proved  false  to  his  ideal,  he  had  not  been  able 
to  resist  the  lures  of  earthly  love,  but  God  was  merciful. 
He  would  not  utterly  reject  him. 
.'52 


490 


TUE  CHRISTIAN. 


His  self-abasement  was  abject,  yet  several  hours  had 
passed  before  he  attempted  to  carry  out  this  design.  It  was 
the  time  of  Evensong  when  he  reached  the  church,  and  the 
brotliers  were  singing  their  last  hymn  : 

Jesus,  lover  of  my  soul, 
Let  me  to  thy  bosom  fly. 

He  stood  by  the  porch  and  listened.  The  street  was  very 
quiet ;  hardly  anybody  was  passing. 

Hide  me,  0  ray  Saviour  hide, 
Till  the  storms  of  life  be  past. 

His  heart  surged  up  to  his  throat,  and  he  could  scarcely 
bear  the  pain  of  it.     Yes,  yes,  yes  I     Other  refuge  had  he 


none 


Suddenly  a  new  thought  smote  him,  and  he  felt  like  a 
man  roused  fi'om  a  deep  sleep.  Glory  !  He  had  been  think- 
ing only  of  his  own  soul  and  his  soul's  salvation,  and  had 
forgotten  his  duty  to  others.  He  had  his  duty  to  Glory 
above  all  others  and  he  could  not  and  must  not  escape  from 
it.  He  must  take  his  place  by  her  side,  and  if  that  included 
the  abandonment  of  his  ideals,  so  be  it  I  He  had  been 
proved  unworthy  of  a  life  of  holiness  ;  he  must  lower  his 
flag,  he  nmst  be  content  to  live  the  life  of  a  man. 

But  he  could  not  think  what  he  ought  to  do  next,  and 
when  night  fell  he  was  still  wandering  aimlessly  through 
the  streets.  He  had  turned  eastward  again,  and  even  in  the 
tumultuous  thorougli fares  of  the  Mile  End  he  could  not 
help  seeing  that  something  unusual  was  going  on.  People 
in  drink  wei-e  rolling  about  the  streets,  and  shouting  and 
singing  as  if  it  had  been  a  public  holiday.  "  Glad  you  ain't 
in  kingdom-come  to-night,  old  gal !  "  ''Well,  what  do  you 
think  r' 

At  twelve  o'clock  he  went  into  a  lodging-house  and 
asked  if  he  could  have  a  bed.  The  keeper  was  in  the  kitchen 
talking  with  two  men  who  were  cooking  a  herring  for  their 
sup])er,  and  he  looked  up  at  his  visitor  in  astonishment. 

"  Can  I  sleep  you,  sir  ?    We  ain't  got  no  accommodation 

for  jr,.„th.nien "  and  then  he  stopped,  looked  more  atteu- 

tivelv.  and  said  : 


1 


SANCTUARY.  491 

"  Are  you  from  the  Settlement,  sir  ?  " 

John  Storm  made  some  inarticulate  reply. 

"  Tliort  ye  might  be,  sir.  We  often  'as  'em  'ere  sempling' 
the  cawfee,  but  blessed  if  they  ever  wanted  to  semple  a  bed 
afore.     Still,  if  you  down't  mind " 

"It  will  be  better  than  I  deserve,  my  man.  Can  you 
give  me  a  cup  of  coffee  before  I  turn  in  ? " 

"•With  pleasure,  sir!  Set  down,  sir!  Myke  yourself  at 
'ome.  Me  and  my  friends  were  just  talkin'  of  a  gentleman 
of  your  cloth,  sir — the  pore  feller  as  'as  got  into  trouble 
acrost  Westminster  way." 

"  Oh,  you  were  talking  of  him,  were  you  ? " 

''Sem  'ere  says  the  biziness  pize." 

"  It  tniist  py,  or  people  wouldn't  do  it,"'  said  the  man  lean- 
ing over  the  fire. 

"  Down't  you  believe  it.  That  little  gime  down't  py. 
Cause  why  ?  Look  at  the  bloomin'  stoo  the  feller's  in  now. 
If  they  ketch  'im  'e'll  get  six  months  'ard," 

"  Then  what's  'e  been  doin'  it  for  ?  I  down't  see  nothink 
in  it  if  it  down't  py." 

"  Cause  he  believes  in  it,  thet's  why  I — What  do  you 
think,  sir  ? " 

"  I  think  the  man  has  come  by  a  just  fall,"  said  John. 
"  God  will  never  use  him  again,  having  brought  him  to 
shame." 

"  Must  hev  been  a  wrong  un  certingly,"  said  the  man 
over  the  fire. 

When  John  Storm  awoke  in  his  cubicle  next  morning  he 
saw  his  way  clearer.  He  would  deliver  himself  up  to  the 
warrant  that  was  issued  for  his  arrest,  and  go  through  with 
it  to  the  end.  Then  he  would  return  to  Glory  a  free  man, 
and  God  would  find  work  for  him  even  yet,  after  this  awful 
lesson  to  his  presumption  and  pride. 

"That  feller  as  was  took  ter  the  awspital  is  dead,"  said 
somebody  in  the  kitchen,  and  then  there  was  the  crinkling 
of  a  newspai^er. 

"  Is  'e  ? "  said  another.  "  The  best  thing  the  Father  can 
do  is  to  'ook  it  then.  Cause  why  ?  Whether  'e  done  it  or 
not  they'll  fix  it  on  ter  'im,  doncher  know  ! " 

John's  head  spun  round  and  round.     He  remembered 


^Qy  THE  CHEISTIAN. 

what  Brother  Andrew  had  said  of  Charlie  Wilkes,  and  liis 
heart,  so  warm  a  moment  ago,  felt  benumbed  as  by  frost. 
Nevertheless,  at  nine  o'clock  he  was  going-  westward  in  the 
Underground.  People  looked  at  him  when  he  stepped  into 
the  carriage.  He  thought  everybody  knew  him,  and  that 
the  w^orld  was  only  playing  with  him  as  a  cat  plays  with  a 
mouse.  The  compartment  was  full  of  young  clerks  smoking 
pipes  and  reading  newspapers. 

"  Most  extraordinary  ! "  said  one  of  them.  "  The  fellow 
has  disappeared  as  absolutely  as  if  he  had  beeu  carried  up 
into  a  cloud." 

"  Why  extraordinary  ? "  said  another  in  a  thin  voice. 
This  one  was  not  smoking,  and  he  had  the  startled  eyes  of 
the  enthusiast.  "Elijah  was  taken  up  to  heaven  in  the 
body,  wasn't  he  ?    And  why  not  Father  Storm  ? " 

"  What  ? "  cried  the  first,  taking  his  pipe  out  of  his 
mouth. 

"Some  people  believe  that,"  said  the  thiu  voice  tim- 
idly. 

'■  Oh,  you  want  a  dose  of  medicine,  you  do,"  said  the  fii'st 
sjjeaker,  shaking  out  his  ash  and  looking  round  with  a  know- 
ing air.  The  young  men  got  out  in  the  City  ;  John  went  ou 
to  Westminster  Bridge. 

It  was  terrible.  Why  could  he  not  take  advantage  of 
the  po]3ular  supei-stition  and  disappear  indeed,  taking  Glory 
with  liini !     But  no,  no,  no  ! 

Through  all  the  torment  of  his  soul  his  religion  liad  re- 
mained the  same,  and  now  it  rose  up  before  him  like  a  pillar 
of  cloud  and  fire.  He  would  do  as  he  had  intended,  what- 
ever the  consequences,  and  if  he  was  charged  with  crimes 
he  had  not  committed,  if  he  was  accused  of  the  offences  of 
his  followers,  he  would  make  no  defence;  if  need  be  he 
would  allow  himself  to  be  convicted,  and  being  innocent  in 
this  in.stance  God  would  accept  his  punishment  as  an  atone- 
ment for  his  other  sins  1  Glorious  sacrifice !  He  would 
make  it !  He  would  make  it !  And  Glory  herself  would 
be  jn-oud  of  it  some  day. 

With  the  glow  of  this  rcsolutitm  upon  l)im  he  turned 
into  Scotland  Yard  and  stejjped  boldly  up  to  the  office.  The 
oHiccr  in  charge  received  him  with  a  deferential  bow,  but 


SANCTUARY.  493 

went  on  talking  in  a  low  voice  to  an  inspector  of  police  who 
was  also  standing  at  the  other  side  of  a  counter. 

"  Strange  ? "  he  was  saying.  "  I  thought  he  was  seen 
getting  into  the  train  at  Euston." 

"  Don't  know  that  he  wasn't  either,  in  spite  of  all  he  says.'" 

"  Thinking  of  the  dog." 

".Well,  the  dog.  too,"  said  the  inspector,  and  then  seeing 
John,  "  Hello  !     Who's  here  ? " 

The  officer  stepped  up  to  the  counter.  "  What  can  I  do 
for  you,  sir  ? "  he  asked. 

John  knew  that  the  supz-enie  moment  had  come,  and  he 
felt  proud  of  himself  that  his  resolution  did  not  waver.  Lift- 
ing his  head,  he  said  in  a  low  and  rapid  voice,  "  I  understand 
that  you  have  a  warrant  for  the  ai-rest  of  Father  Storm." 

"  We  had,  sir,"  the  officer  answered. 

John  looked  embarrassed.  "What  do  you  mean  by 
that  ? " 

"  I  mean  that  Father  Storm  is  now  in  custody." 

John  stared  at  the  man  with  a  feeling  of  stupefaction. 
"  In  custody !     Did  you  say  in  custody  ?  " 

"  Precisely  !     He  has  just  given  himself  uji." 

John  answered  impetuously,  "  But  that  is  impossible." 

"  Why  impossible,  sir  ?  Are  you  interested  in  this 
case  ? " 

A  certain  quivering  moved  John's  mouth.  "  I  am 
Father  Storm  himself." 

The  officer  was  silent  for  a  moment.  Then  he  turned  to 
the  inspector  with  a  pitying  smile.  "Another  of  them,"  he 
said  significantly.  The  psychology  of  criminals  had  been 
an  interesting  study  to  this  official. 

"  Wait  a  minute,"  said  the  insijector,  and  he  went  hui*- 
riedly  through  an  inner  doorway.  The  officer  asked  John 
some  questions  about  his  movements  since  yesterday.  John 
answered  vaguely  in  broken  and  rather  bewildering  sen- 
tences.    Then  the  inspector  returned. 

"  You  are  Father  Storm  ? " 

"  Ye.s." 

"  Do  you  know  of  anybody  who  might  wish  to  personate 
you  ? " 

"  God  forbid  that  any  one  should  do  that !  " 


494 


THE  CHRISTIAN. 


"  Still,  there  is  some  one  here  who  says " 

"  Let  nie  see  him." 

"  Come  this  way  quietly,"  said  the  inspector,  and  John 
followed  him  to  the  inner  room.  His  pride  was  all  gone, 
his  head  was  hanging  low,  and  he  was  a  prey  to  extraordi- 
nary agitation. 

A  man  in  a  black  cassock  was  sitting  at  a  table  making 
a  statement  to  another  officer  with  an  open  book  before  him. 
His  back  was  to  the  door,  but  John  knew  him  in  a  moment. 
It  was  Brother  Andrew. 

"  Then  why  have  you  given  yourself  up  ? ''  the  officer 
asked,  and  Brother  Andrew  began  a  rambling  and  foolish 
explanation.  He  had  seen  it  stated  in  an  evening  paper  that 
the  Father  had  been  traced  to  the  train  at  Euston,  and  he 
thought  it  a  pity — a  pity  that  the  police— that  the  police 
should  waste  their  time 

''  Take  care  ! "  said  the  officer.  "  You  are  in  a  position 
that  should  make  you  careful  of  what  you  say." 

And  then  the  inspector  stepped  forward,  leaving  John 
by  the  door. 

"  You  still  say  you  are  Father  Storm  ?  " 

"Of  course  I  do,"  said  Brother  xAndi-ew  indignantly.  "If 
I  was  anybody  else,  do  you  think  I  should  come  here  and 
give  myself  up " 

"  Tlien  who  is  this  standing  behind  you  ? " 

Brother  Andrew  turned  and  saw  John  with  a  start  of 
surprise  and  a  cry  of  terror.  He  seemed  hai'dly  able  to 
believe  in  the  reality  of  what  was  before  him,  and  his  rest- 
less eyeballs  rolled  fearfully.  John  tried  to  speak,  but  he 
could  only  utter  a  few  inarticulate  sounds. 

"Well?"  said  the  inspector.  And  while  John  stood 
with  head  down  and  heaving  breast,  Brother  Andrew  began 
to  laugh  hy.sterically  and  to  say  : 

"  Don't  you  know  who  this  is  ?  This  is  my  lay  brother  ! 
I  brought  him  out  of  the  Brotherhood  six  months  ago,  and 
he  has  been  with  me  ever  since." 

The  officers  looked  at  each  other.  "Good  heavens!" 
cried  Brother  Andrew  in  an  imperious  voice,  "don't 
ycm  lipjiovo  me  ?  You  mustn't  touch  this  man.  He 
lias   (loiio   nothing -nothing  at  all.      He   is  as    tender  as 


SANCTUARY.  495 

a  woman  and  wouldn't  hiu't  a  fly.  "What's  he  doing 
here  ? " 

The  officers  also  were  dropping  their  heads,  and  the 
heartrending  voice   went  on :   "  Have   you   ai'rested    him  ? 

You'll  do  very  wrong  if  you  arrest But  perhaps  he  has 

given  .himself  up!  That  would  be  just  like  him.  He  is 
devoted  to  me   and  would   tell  you   any  falsehood  if  he 

thought  it  would But  you  must  send  him  away.     Tell 

him  to  go  back  to  his  old  mother — that's  the  proper  place  for 
him.     Good  God  !  do  you  think  I'm  telling  you  lies  ? " 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment.  "  My  poor  lad,  hush, 
hush  !  "  said  John  in  a  tone  full  of  tenderness  and  author- 
ity. Then  he  turned  to  the  inspector  with  a  pitiful  smile  of 
triumijh.     "  Ai'e  you  satisfied  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Quite  satisfied,  Father,"  the  officer  answered  in  a  broken 
voice,  and  then  Brother  Andrew  began  to  cry. 


When  Glory  awoke  on  the  morning  after  the  Derby  and 
thought  of  John  she  felt  no  remorse.  A  sea  of  bewildering 
difficulty  lay  somewhere  ahead,  but  she  would  not  look  at 
it.  He  loved  her,  she  loved  him,  and  nothing  else  mattered. 
If  rules  and  vows  stood  between  them,  so  much  the  worse 
for  such  enemies  of  love. 

She  was  conscious  that  a  subtle  change  had  come  over 
her.  She  was  not  herself  any  longer,  but  somebody  else  as 
well ;  not  a  woman  merely,  but  in  some  sort  a  man ;  not 
Glory  only,  but  also  John  Storm.  Oh,  delicious  mystery ! 
Oh,  joy  of  joys !  His  arms  seemed  to  be  about  her  waist 
still,  and  his  breath  to  linger  about  her  neck.  With  a  cer- 
tain tremor,  a  certain  thrill,  she  reached  for  a  hand-glass 
and  looked  at  herself  to  learn  if  there  was  any  difi'erence  in 
her  face  that  the  rest  of  the  woi'ld  would  see.  Yes.  her  eyes 
had  another  lustre,  a  deeper  light,  but  she  lay  back  in  the 
cool  bed  with  a  smile  and  a  long-drawn  sigh.  What  mat- 
ter whatever  happened  !  Gone  were  the  six  cruel  months 
in  which  she  had  awakened  every  morning  with  a  pain  at 
her  breast.     She  was  happy,  happy,  happy  ! 


496  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

The  morning  sun  was  streaming  across  the  room  when 
Liza  came  in  with  the  tea. 

'>  Did  ye  see  the  Farver  last  night,  Miss  Gloria  ? " 

"  Oh.  yes  ;  that  was  all  right,  Liza." 

The  clay's  newspaper  was  lying  folded  on  the  tray.  She 
took  it  up  and  opened  it,  remembering  the  Derby,  and  think- 
ing for  the  first  time  of  Drake's  triumph.  But  wliat  caught 
her  eye  in  glaring  head-lines  was  a  different  matter  :  "  The 
Panic  Terror— Collapse  of  the  Farce." 

It  was  a  shriek  of  triumphant  derision.  The  fateful  day 
had  come  and  gone,  yet  London  stood  where  it  did  before. 
Last  night's  tide  had  flowed  and  ebbed,  and  the  dwellings 
of  men  were  not  submerged.  No  earthquake  had  swallowed 
up  St.  Paul's ;  no  mighty  bonfire  of  the  greatest  city  of  the 
world  had  lit  up  the  sky  of  Europe,  and  even  the  thunder- 
storm wliich  had  broken  over  London  had  only  laid  the 
dust  and  left  the  air  more  clear. 

"  London  is  to  be  congratulated  on  the  collapse  of  this 
panic,  which,  so  far  as  we  can  hear,  has  been  attended  by 
only  one  casualty — an  assault  in  Brown's  Square,  Westmin- 
ster, on  a  young  soldier,  Charles  Wilkes,  of  the  Wellington 
Barracks,  by  two  of  the  frantic  army  of  the  terror-stricken. 
The  injured  man  was  removed  to  St.  Thomas's  Hosj)ital, 
while  his  assailants  were  taken  to  Rochester  Row  police  sta- 
tion, and  we  have  only  to  regret  that  the  clerical  panic- 
maker  himself  has  not  yet  shai'ed  the  fate  of  his  followers. 
Late  last  night  the  authorities,  recovering  from  their  ex- 
traordinarj'  supineness,  issued  a  warrant  for  his  arrest,  but 
up  to  tlie  time  of  going  to  press  he  had  escaped  the  vigilance 
of  the  police." 

GlcM-y  was  breathing  audibly  as  she  read,  and  Liza,  who 
was  drawing  up  the  blind,  looked  back  at  her  with  surprise. 

"Liza,  have  you  mentioned  to  anybody  that  Father 
Storm  was  here  last  night  ? " 

"Why.  no,  miss,  there  ain't  nobody  stirrin'  yet,  and  be- 
sides  " 

"Then  don't  mention  it  to  a  soul.  Will  you  do  me  that 
great,  great  kindness  ? "' 

"  Down't  ye  know  I  will,  mum  ?"  said  Liza,  ^vith  a  twin- 
kle of  fhe  eye  and  a  wag  of  the  head. 


SANCTUARY.  497 

Glory  dressed  hurriedly,  went  down  to  the  drawing- 
room,  and  wrote  a  letter.  It  was  to  Sefton,  the  manager. 
"  Do  not  expect  me  to  play  to-night.  I  don't  feel  np  to  it. 
Sorry  to  be  so  troublesome." 

Then  Rosa  came  in  with  another  newspaper  in  her  hand, 
and,  without  saying  anything.  Glory  showed  her  the  letter. 
Rosa  read  it  and  returned  it  in  silence.  They  understood 
each  other. 

During  the  next  few  hours  Glory's  impatience  became 
feverish,  and  as  soon  as  the  first  of  the  evening  papers  ap- 
peared she  sent  out  for  it.  The  panic  was  subsiding,  and  the 
people  who  had  gone  to  the  outskirts  were  returning  to  the 
city  in  troops,  looking  downcast  and  ashamed.  No  news  of 
Father  Storm.  Inquiry  that  morning  at  Scotland  Yai'd 
elicited  the  fact  that  nothing  had  yet  been  heard  of  him. 
There  was  much  i^erplexity  as  to  where  he  had  spent  the 
previous  night. 

Glory's  face  tingled  and  burned.  From  hour  to  hour 
she  sent  out  for  new  editions.  The  panic  itself  was  now 
eclipsed  by  the  interest  of  John  Storm's  disappearance. 
His  followers  scouted  the  idea  that  he  had  fled  from  Lon- 
don. Nevertheless,  he  had  fallen.  As  a  pretender  to  the 
gift  of  prophecy  his  career  was  at  an  end,  and  his  crazy 
system  of  mystical  divinity  was  the  laughing-stock  of 
London. 

"  It  does  not  surprise  us  that  this  second  Moses,  this 
mock  Messiah,  has  broken  down.  Such  men  always  do, 
and  must  collapse,  but  that  the  public  should  ever  have 

taken  seriously  a  movement  which "  and  then  a  grotesque 

list  of  John's  followers — one  pawnbroker,  one  waiter,  one 
"  knocker-up,"  two  or  three  apprentices,  etc. 

As  she  read  all  this.  Glory  was  at  the  same  time  glowing 
with  shame,  trembling  with  fear,  and  burning  with  indigna- 
tion. She  dined  with  Rosa  alone,  and  they  tried  to  talk  of 
other  matters.  The  etfoi't  was  useless.  At  last  Rosa 
;:aid : 

"I  have  to  follow  this  thing  up  for  the  paper,  deai*,  and 
I'm  going  to-night  to  see  if  they  hold  the  usual  service  in 
his  church.'' 

"  May  1  go  with  you  ? " 


4Qg  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

"If  you  wish  to,  but  it  will  be  useless — he  won't  be 
tliere." 

'•Why  not?" 

"The  Prime  Minister  left  London  last  night— I  can't 
help  thinking  there  is  something  in  that." 

"  He  will  be  there,  Rosa.  He's  not  the  man  to  run  away. 
I  know  him,"  said  Glory  proudly. 

The  church  was  crowded,  and  it  Avas  with  difficulty 
they  found  seats.  John's  enemies  were  present  in  force — 
all  the  owners  of  vested  interests  who  had  seen  their  liveli- 
hood threatened  by  the  man  who  declared  w^ar  on  vice  and 
its  uphoklers.  There  w^as  a  dangerous  atmosphere  before 
the  service  began,  and,  notwithstanding  her  brave  faith  in 
him,  Glory  found  herself  praying  that  John  Storm  might 
not  come.  As  the  organ  played  and  the  choir  and  clergy 
entered  the  excitement  was  intense,  and  some  of  the  con- 
gregation got  on  to  their  seats  in  their  eagerness  to  see  if 
the  Father  was  there.  He  was  not  there.  The  black  cas- 
sock and  biretta  in  which  he  had  lately  preached  were  no- 
where to  be  seen,  and  a  murmur  of  disappointment  j)assed 
over  friends  and  enemies  alike. 

Then  came  a  disgraceful  spectacle.  A  man  with  a 
bloated  face  and  a  bandage  about  his  forehead  rose  in  his 
place  and  cried,  "  No  popery,  boys ! "  Straightaway  the 
service,  which  was  being  conducted  b}-  two  of  the  clerical 
brothers  from  the  Brotherhood,  was  inteiTupted  by  hissing, 
whistling,  shouting,  yelling,  and  whooping  indescribable. 
Songs  were  roared  out  during  the  lessons,  and  cushions, 
cassocks,  and  prayer-books  were  flung  at  the  altar  and  its 
furniture.  The  terrified  clioir  boys  fled  downstairs  to  their 
own  (juurters,  and  the  clergy  were  driven  out  of  the  church. 

John's  ov.-n  peo])le  stole  awa^'  in  terror  and  shame,  but 
Glory  leaped  to  her  feet  as  if  to  fling  herself  on  the  coward- 
ly rabble.  Her  voice  was  lost  in  the  tumult,  and  Rosa 
drew  her  out  into  the  street. 

"  Is  there  no  law  in  the  land  to  prevent  brawling  like 
this? "  she  cried,  but  the  police  paid  no  heed  to  her. 

Then  the  congregation,  which  had  broken  up,  came 
rushins:  out  of  the  c-lmrcli  and  round  to  the  door  leading  to 
tlie  chambers  beneiith  it. 


SANCTUARY.  499 

"  They've  found  liim,"  thought  Glory,  pressing  her  hand 
over  her  heart.  But  no,  it  was  another  matter.  Immedi- 
ately afterward  there  rose  over  the  bahel  of  human  voices 
the  deep  music  of  the  bloodhound  in  full  cry.  The  crowd 
shrieked  with  fear  and  delight,  then  surged  and  parted,  and 
the  dog  came  running  through  with  its  stern  up,  its  head 
down,  its  foi'ehead  wrinkled,  and  the  long  drapery  of  its 
ears  and  flews  hanging  in  folds  about  its  face.  In  a  mo- 
ment it  was  gone,  its  mellow  note  was  dying  away  in  the 
neighbouring  streets,  and  a  gang  of  ruffians  were  racing 
after  it.  "  Tliat'll  find  the  feller  if  he's  in  London ! "  some- 
body shouted ;  it  was  the  man  with  the  bandaged  forehead 
— and  there  were  yells  of  fiendish  laughter. 

Glory's  head  was  going  round,  and  she  was  holding  on 
to  Rosa's  arm  with  a  convulsive  grasp. 

'■  The  cowards ! ''  she  cried.  "  To  use  that  poor  creature's 
devotion  to  its  master  for  their  own  inhuman  ends — it's 
cowardly,  it's  brutal,  it's Oh,  oh,  oh  ! " 

"  Come,  dear,"  said  Rosa,  and  she  dragged  Glory  away. 

They  went  back  through  Broad  Sanctuary.  Neither 
spoke,  but  both  were  thinking :  "  He  has  gone  to  the  monas- 
tery. He  intends  to  stay  there  until  the  storm  is  over.'' 
At  Westminster  Bridge  they  parted.  "I  have  somewhere 
to  go,"  said  Rosa,  turning  down  to  the  Underground.  '•  She 
is  going  to  Bishopsgate  Street,"  thought  Glory,  and  they 
separated  with  consti'aint. 

Returning  to  Clement's  Inn,  Glory  found  a  letter  from 
Drake : 

"  Dear  Glory  :  How  can  I  apologize  to  you  for  my 
detestable  behaviour  of  last  night  ?  The  memory  of  what 
jjassed  has  taken  all  the  joy  out  of  the  success  upon  w^hich 
everybody  is  congratulating  me.  I  have  tried  to  persuade 
myself  that  you  would  make  allowances  for  the  day  and 
the  circumstances  and  my  natural  excitement.  But  your 
life  has  been  so  blameless  that  it  fills  me  with  anguish  and 
horror  to  think  how  I  exposed  you  to  misrepresentation  by 
allov.-ing  you  to  go  to  that  place,  and  by  behaving  to  you 
as  I  did  when  you  were  there.  Thank  God,  things  went  no 
farther,  and  some  blessed  })ower  prevented  me  from  carry- 


gQQ  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

ing  out  my  threat  to  follow  you.  Believe  me,  you  shall  see 
no'niorc  of  men  like  Lord  Robert  Ure  and  women  like  his 
associates.  I  despise  them  from  my  heart,  and  wonder  hov.- 
I  can  have  tolerated  them  so  long.  Do  let  me  beg  the 
favour  of  a  line  consenting  to  allow  me  to  call  and  ask 
your  forgiveness.  Yours  most  humbly, 

"  F.  H.  N.  Drake." 

Glory  slept  badly  that  night,  and  as  soon  as  Liza  was 
stirring  she  rang  for  the  newspaper. 

"  Didn't  ye  'ear  the  dorg,  mum  ?  "  said  Liza. 

"What  dog?" 

"The  Farver's  dorg.  It  was  scratching  at  the  front 
dawer  afore  I  was  up  this  morning.  'It's  the  milk,'  sez  I. 
But  the  minute  I  opened  the  dawer  up  it  came  ter  the  di-aw- 
erin'  room  and  went  snuffling  rahnd  everywhere." 

"  Where  is  it  now  ?  " 

"  Gorn,  muui." 

"Did  anybody  else  see  it  ?  No?  You  say  no  ?  You're 
sure  ?  Then  say  nothing  about  it,  Liza — nothing  whatever 
— thai's  a  good  girl." 

The  newspaper  was  full  of  the  mysterious  disappearance. 
Not  a  trace  of  the  Father  had  yet  been  found.  The  idea 
had  been  started  that  he  had  gone  into  seclusion  at  the  An- 
glican monastery  with  which  he  was  associated,  but  on  in- 
quiry at  Bisliopsgate  Street  it  was  fov;nd  that  nothing  had 
been  seen  of  him  there.  Since  yesterday  the  whole  of  Lon- 
don liad  been  scoured  by  the  police,  but  not  one  fact  had 
been  brought  to  light  to  make  clearer  the  mystery  of  his 
going  away.  With  the  most  noticeable  face  and  halnt  in 
London  he  had  evaded  scrutiny  and  gone  into  a  retirement 
whidi  balHed  discovery.  No  master  of  the  stage  art  could 
have  devised  a  more  sensational  disappearance.  He  had 
vanished  as  though  whirled  to  heaven  in  a  cloud,  and  that 
was  literally  what  the  more  fanatical  of  his  f(^llo\vers  be- 
lieved to  have  been  liis  fate.  Among  these  persons  there 
were  wild-eyed  hangers-on  telling  of  a  llight  upward  on  a 
I'u'i-y  chariot,  as  well  as  a  predicted  disappearance  and  re- 
appearance after  three  days.  Such  were  the  stories  being 
irulpcd  down  by  the  thousands  who  still  clung  with  an  inde- 


SANCTUARY.  501 

finable  fascination  to  the  memory  of  the  charlatan.  Mean- 
time the  soldier  Wilkes  had  died  of  his  injuries,  and  the 
coroner's  inquiry  was  to  be  opened  that  day. 

"  Unfeeling  brutes  !  The  bloodhound  is  an  angel  of  mercy 
compared  to  them,"  thought  Grlory,  but  the  worst  sting  was 
in  the  thought  that  John  had  fled  out  of  fear  and  was  now 
in  hiding  somewhere. 

Toward  noon  the  newsboys  were  rushing  through  the 
Inn,  crying  their  papers  against  all  regulations,  and  at  the 
same  moment  Rosa  came  in  to  say  that  John  Storm  had  sur- 
rendered. 

"  I  knew  it !  "  cried  Glory ;  "  I  knew  he  would  ! " 

Then  Rosa  told  her  of  Brother  Andrew's  attempt  to  per- 
sonate his  master,  and  with  what  pitiful  circumstancet-  it 
had  ended. 

"  Only  a  lay  brother^  you  say,  Rosa  ? " 

"  Yes,  a  poor  half-witted  soul  apparently — must  have 
been,  to  imagine  that  a  subterfuge  like  that  would  succeed 
in  London." 

Glory's  eyes  were  gleaming.  "  Rosa,"  she  said,  "  I  would 
rather  have  done  what  he  did  than  play  the  greatest  part  in 
the  world." 

She  wished  to  be  present  at  the  trial,  and  proposed  to  Rosa 
that  she  should  go  with  her. 

"  But  dare  you,  my  child  ?  Considering  your  old  friend- 
ship, dare  you  see  him " 

"  Dare  I  ?  "  said  Glory.  "  Dare  I  stand  in  the  dock  by 
his  side ! " 

But  when  she  got  to  Bow  Street  and  saw  the  crowds  in 
the  court,  the  line  of  distinguished  persons  of  both  sexes 
allowed  to  sit  on  the  bench,  the  army  of  reporters  and  news- 
paper artists,  and  all  the  mass  of  smiling  and  eager  faces, 
witliout  ruth  or  pity,  gathered  together  as  for  a  sliow,  her 
heart  sickened  and  she  crept  out  of  the  place  before  the  jiris- 
oner  was  brought  into  the  dock. 

Walking  to  and  fro  in  the  corridor,  she  waited  the  result 
of  the  trial.  It  was  not  a  long  one.  The  charge  was  that 
of  causing  people  unlawfully  to  assemble  to  the  danger  of 
the  public  peace.  There  was  no  defence.  A  man  with  a 
bandasred  forehead  was  the  first  of  the  witnesses.     He  was 


5(i2 


THE  CHRISTIAN. 


a  publican,  who  lived  in  Brown's  Square  and  had  been  a 
friend  of  the  soldier  Wilkes.  The  injury  to  his  forehead 
was  tlie  result  of  a  blow  from  a  stick  given  by  the  prisoner's 
lay  brother  on  the  night  of  the  Derby,  w-hen,  with  the  help 
of  the  deceased,  he  had  attempted  to  liberate  the  blood- 
hound. He  had  much  to  say  of  the  Fathers  sermons,  his 
speeches,  his  predictions,  his  slanders,  and  his  disloyalty. 
Other  witnesses  were  Pincher  and  Hawkins.  They  were  in 
a  state  of  abject  fear  at  the  fate  hanging  over  their  own 
heads,  and  tried  to  save  their  own  skins  by  laying  the  blame 
of  their  own  conduct  upon  the  Father.  The  last  witness  was 
Brother  Andrew,  and  he  broke  down  utterly.  Within  an 
hour  Rosa  came  out  to  say  that  John  Storm  had  been  com- 
mitted for  trial.  Bail  was  not  asked  for,  and  the  prisoner, 
who  had  not  uttered  a  word  from  first  to  last,  had  been  taken 
back  to  the  cells. 

Glory  hum'ied  home  and  shut  herself  in  her  room.  The 
newsboys  in  the  street  were  shouting,  "  Father  Storm  in  the 
dock  I '"  and  filling  the  air  with  their  cries.  She  covered  her 
ears  with  her  hands,  and  made  noises  in  her  throat  that  she 
might  not  hear. 

John  Storm's  career  was  at  an  end.  It  was  all  her  fault. 
If  she  had  yielded  to  his  desire  to  leave  London,  or  if  she 
had  joined  him  there,  how  different  everything  must  have 
been!  But  she  had  broken  in  upon  his  life  and  wrecked 
it.  She  had  sinned  against  him  who  had  given  her  every- 
thing that  one  human  soul  can  give  another. 

Liza  came  up  witli  red  eyes,  bringing  the  evening  papers 
and  a  letter.  The  papers  contained  long  reports  of  the  trial 
and  short  editorials  reproving  the  public  for  its  interest  in 
such  a  poor  impostor.  Some  of  them  contained  sketches  of 
the  prisoner  and  of  the  distinguished  persons  recogni.sed  in 

court.     "The  stage  was  represented  by  ,"  and  then  a 

caricuture  of  henself. 

Tlie  letter  was  from  Aunt  Rachel : 

"  My  dear,  my  best-beloved  Glory  :  I  know  how  much 
your  kind  heart  will  be  lowered  by  the  painful  tidings  I 
have  to  write  to  you.  Lord  Storm  died  on  Monday  and  was 
buried  to-day.    To  the  last  he  declared  he  would  never  con- 


SANCTUARY.  503 

sent  to  make  peace  witli  John,  and  he  lias  left  nothing'  to 
him  but  his  title,  so  that  our  dear  friend  is  now  a  noble- 
man without  an  estate.  Everybody  about  the  old  lord  at 
the  end  was  vmanimous  in  favour  of  his  son,  but  he  would 
not  listen  to  them,  and  the  scene  at  the  deathbed  was  shock- 
ing-. It  seems  that  Avith  his  dying  breath  and  many  bursts 
of  laughter  he  read  aloud  his  will,  which  ordered  that  his 
effects  should  be  sold  and  the  proceeds  given  to  some  so- 
ciety for  the  protection  of  the  Established  Church.  And 
then  he  told  old  Chaise  that  as  soon  as  he  was  gone  a  coffin 
was  to  be  got  and  he  was  to  be  screwed  down  at  once,  'for,' 
said  he,  '  my  son  would  not  come  to  see  me  living,  and  he 
sha'n't  stand  grinning  at  me  dead.''  The  funeral  was  at 
Kirkpatrick  this  morning,  and  feiv  came  to  see  the  last  of 
one  who  had  left  none  to  mourn  him ;  but  just  as  the  re- 
mains were  being  deposited  in  the  dark  vault  a  carriage 
drove  up  and  an  elderly  gentleman  got  out.  No  one  knew 
him,  and  he  stood  and  looked  down  with  his  impassiv^e  face 
while  the  service  was  being  read,  and  then,  without  speak- 
ing to  any  one,  he  got  back  into  the  carriage  and  drove 
away.  The  minute  he  was  gone  I  told  Anna  he  was  some- 
body of  consequence ;  and  then  everybody  said  it  must  be 
Lord  Storm's  brother  and  no  less  a  person  than  the  Prime 
Minister  of  England.  It  seems  that  the  sale  is  to  come  off 
immediately,  .so  that  Knockaloe  will  be  a  waste,  as  if  sown 
with  salt ;  and,  so  far  as  this  island  is  concerned,  all  trace  of 
the  Storms,  father  and  son,  will  be  gone  for  good.  I  ever 
knew  it  must  end  thus  !  But  I  will  more  particularly  tell 
you  everything  when  we  meet  again,  which  I  hope  may  be 
soon.  Meantime  I  need  not  say  how  much  I  am,  my  dear 
child,  your  ever  fond — nay,  more  than  fond — devoted  auntie, 

"  Eachel." 


XI. 

"Yes,"  said  Rosa,  across  the  dinner  table,  "the  sudden 
fall  of  a  man  who  has  filled  a  large  space  in  the  public  eye 
is  always  pitiful.  -It  is  like  the  fall  of  a  great  tree  in  the 
forest.  One  never  realized  how  big  it  was  until  it  was 
down." 


^Q^  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

"  It's  awful !  awful ! "  said  Glory. 

"Whether  one  liked  the  man  or  not,  such  a  downfall 
seems  hard  to  reconcile  with  the  idea  of  a  beneficent  Provi- 
dence."' 

"  Hard  ?    Impossible,  you  mean  !  " 

"  Glory ! " 

"Oh,  I'm  only  a  pagan,  and  always  have  been;  but  I 
can't  believe  in  a  God  that  does  nothing— I  won't,  I  won't !  " 

"  Still,  we  can't  see  the  end  yet.  After  the  cross  the  res- 
urrection, as  the  Church  folks  say  ;  and  who  knows  but  out 
of  all  this " 

"  What's  to  become  of  his  church  ? " 

"  Oh,  there'll  be  people  enough  to  see  to  that,  and  if  the 
dear  Archdeacon — but  he's  busy  with  Mrs.  Macrae,  bless 
him  !  She  has  gone  to  wreck  at  last,  and  is  living  hidden 
away  in  a  farmhouse  somewhere,  that  she  may  drink  herself 
to  death  without  detection  and  intei-ruption.  But  the  Arch- 
deacon and  Lord  Robert  liave  found  her  out,  and  there  they 
are  hovering  round  like  two  vultures,  waiting  for  the  end." 

"  And  his  orphanage  ?  " 

"  Ah,  that's  another  pair  of  shoes  altogether,  dear.  Be- 
ing an  institution  that  asks  for  an  income  instead  of  giving 
one,  there'll  be  nobody  too  keen  to  take  it  over." 

"  O  God  !  0  God  !     W^hat  a  world  it  is  ! "  cried  Glory. 

After  dinner  she  went  off  to  Westminster  in  search  of 
the  orphanage.  It  stood  on  a  corner  of  the  church  square. 
The  door  was  closed,  and  the  windoAvs  of  the  ground  floor 
were  shuttered.  With  difficulty  she  obtained  admission  and 
access  to  the  person  in  charge.  This  was  an  elderly  lady  in 
a  black  silk  dress  and  with  snow-white  hair. 

"I'm  no  the  matron,  miss,"  she  said.  "The  matron's 
gone— tied  awa'  like  a'  the  lave  o'  the  grand  Sisters,  tliink- 
ing  sure  the  mob  would  mak'  this  house  their  next  point  of 
attack." 

"Then  I  know  whom  you  are— you're  Mrs.  Callender," 
said  Glory. 

"  Jane  Callender  I  am,  young  leddy.  And  who  may  ye 
be  yersel'  ? " 

"  I'm  a  friend  of  John's,  and  I  want  to  know  if  there's 
anything " 


SANCTUARY.  505 

"  You're  no  the  lassie  hersel',  are  ye  ?  You  are,  though  ; 
I  see  fine  you  are  !  Come,  kiss  lue — again,  lassie  !  Oh,  dear  ! 
oh,  dear !  And  to  think  we  must  be  meeting  same  as  this ! 
For  a'  the  world  it's  like  clasping  hands  ower  the  puir  lad- 
die's grave ! " 

They  cried  in  each  other's  arms,  and  then  both  felt 
better. 

"And  the  children,"  said  Glory,  "who's  looking  after 
them  if  the  matron  and  Sisters  are  gone  ? " 

"Just  me  and  the  puir  bairns  theirsel's,  and  the  wee 
maid  of  all  wark  that  opened  the  door  til  ye.  But  come 
your  ways  and  look  at  them." 

The  dormitory  was  in  an  upper  story.  Mrs.  Callender 
had  opened  the  door  softly,  and  Glory  stepped  into  a  large 
dark  room  in  which  fifty  children  lay  asleep.  Their  breath- 
ing was  all  that  could  be  heard,  and  it  seemed  to  fill  the 
air  as  with  the  rustle  of  a  gentle  breeze.  But  it  was  hard  to 
look  upon  them  and  to  think  of  their  only  earthly  father  in 
his  cell.  With  full  hearts  and  dry  throats  the  two  women 
returned  to  a  room  below. 

By  this  time  the  square,  which  before  had  only  shown 
people  standing  in  doorways  and  lounging  at  street  corners, 
was  crowded  with  a  noisy  rabble.  They  were  shouting  out 
indecent  jokes  about  "  monks,"  "  his  reverend  lordship,"  and 
"  doctors  of  diwinity  "  ;  and  a  small  gang  of  them  had  got  a 
rope  which  they  were  trying  to  throw  as  a  lasso  round  a 
figure  of  the  Virgin  in  a  niche  over  the  porch.  The  figure 
came  down  at  length  amid  shrieks  of  delight,  and  when  the 
jjolice  charged  the  mob  they  flung  stones  which  broke  the 
church  windows. 

Again  Glory  felt  an  impulse  to  throw  hei'self  on  the 
cowardly  rabble,  but  she  only  crouched  at  the  window  by 
the  side  of  Mrs.  Callender,  and  looked  down  at  the  sea  of 
faces  below  with  their  evil  ej'es  and  cruel  moviths. 

"Oh,  what  a  thing  it  is  to  be  a  woman  ! "  she  moaned. 

"  Aye,  lassie,  aye,  there's  mair  than  one  of  us  has  felt 
that,"  said  Mrs.  Callender. 

Glory  did  not  speak  again  as  long  as  they  knelt  by  the 
window,  holding  each  other's  hands,  but  the  tears  that  had 
sprung  to  her  eyes  at  the  thought  of  her  helplessness  dried 
33 


506  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

up  of  tliemselves,  and  in  their  place  came  the  light  of  a 
great  resolution.  Slie  knew  that  her  hour  had  struck  at 
last — tliat  this  was  the  beginning  of  the  end. 

The  theatres  Avere  emptying  and  carriages  were  rolling 
away  from  them  as  she  drove  home  by  way  of  the  Strand. 
She  saw  her  name  on  omnibuses  and  her  picture  on  hoard- 
ings, and  felt  a  sharp  pang.  But  she  was  in  a  state  of  fever- 
ish excitement  and  the  pain  was  gone  in  a  moment. 

Another  letter  from  Drake  was  waiting  for  her  at  the 
Inn: 

"  I  feel,  my  dear  Glory,  that  you  are  entirely  justified  in 
your  silence,  but  to  show  you  how  deep  is  my  regi-et,  I  am 
about  to  put  it  in  my  power  to  atone,  as  far  as  I  can,  for 
the  conduct  which  has  quite  properly  troubled  and  hxu't 
you.  You  will  put  me  under  an  eternal  obligation  to  you 
if  you  will  consent  to  become  my  wife.  We  should  be 
friends  as  well  as  lovers.  Glory,  and  in  an  age  distinguished 
for  brilliant  and  beautiful  women,  it  would  be  the  crown  of 
my  honour  that  my  wife  was  above  all  a  woman  of  genius. 
Nothing  should  disturb  the  development  of  your  gifts,  and 
if  any  social  claims  conflicted  Avith  them,  they,  and  not 
you,  would  suffer.  For  the  rest  I  can  bring  you  nothing, 
dear,  but— thanks  to  the  good  father  who  was  born  before 
me— such  advantages  as  belong  to  wealth.  But  so  far  as 
the.se  go  there  is  no  pleasure  you  need  deny  yourself,  and 
if  your  sympathies  are  set  on  any  good  work  for  humanity 
there  is  no  opportunity  you  may  not  command.  With  this 
I  can  only  offer  j'ou  the  love  and  devotion  of  my  whole 
heart  and  .soul,  which  now  w^ait  in  fear  and  pain  for  your 
reply." 

Glory  i-oad  this  letter  with  a  certain  quivering  of  the  eye- 
lids, but  sb«^  put  it  away  without  a  qualm.  Nevertheless, 
the  letter  was  bard  to  reply  to,  and  she  made  many  attempts 
wiMiout  satisfying  her.self  in  the  end.  There  was  a  note  of 
falsehood  in  all  of  them,  and  she  felt  troubled  and  ashamed  : 

"  When  I  remember  how  good  you  have  been  to  me  from 
llie  lirst,  I  could  cry  to  think  of  the  answer  I  must  give  you. 


SANCTUARY.  507 

But  I  can't  help  it— oli,  I  can't,  I  can't !  Don't  think  me  un- 
grateful, and  don't  suppose  I  am  angry  or  in  any  way  hurt 
or  offended,  but  to  do  what  you  desire  is  impossible — quite, 
quite  impossible.  Oh,  if  you  only  knew  what  it  is  to  deny 
myself  the  future  you  offer  me,  to  turn  my  back  on  the 
gladness  with  which  life  has  come  to  me,  to  strip  all  these 
roses  from  my  hair,  you  would  believe  it  must  be  a  far,  far 
highef"  call  than  to  worldly  rank  and  greatness  that  I  am 
listening  to  at  last.  And  it  is.  A  woman  may  trifle  witli 
Jier  heart,  while  the  one  she  loves  is  well  and  happy  or  great 
and  prosperous,  but  when  he  is  down  and  the  cruel  world  is 
trampling  on  him,  there  can  be  no  paltering  with  it  any 
longer Yes,  I  must  go  to  hitn  if  I  go  to  anybody.  Be- 
sides, you  can  do  without  me  and  he  can  not.  You  have 
all  the  world,  and  he  has  nothing  but  me.  If  you  were  a 
woman  you  would  understand  all  this,  but  you  are  loyal  and 
brave  and  true,  and  when  I  look  at  your  letter  and  remem- 
ber how  often  you  have  spoken  up  for  a  fallen  man  my  heai't 
quivers  and  my  eyes  grow  dim,  and  I  know  what  it  means 
to  be  an  English  gentleman." 

After  writing  this  letter  she  went  up  to  her  bedroom  and 
busied  herself  about  for  an  hour,  making  up  pai'cels  of  her 
clothing  and  jewellery,  and  labelling  them  with  envelopes 
bearing  names.  The  plainer  costumes  she  addressed  to 
Aunt  Anna,  a  fur-lined  coat  to  Aunt  Rachel,  an  opera  cloak 
to  Rosa,  and  a  quantity  of  underclothing  to  Liza.  All  her 
jewels,  and  nearly  all  the  silver  trinkets  from  the  dressing- 
table,  were  made  up  in  a  parcel  by  tliemselves  and  addressed 
back  to  the  giver — Sir  Francis  Drake. 

The  clock  of  St.  Clement's  Danes  was  chiming  midnight 
when  this  was  done,  and  she  stood  a  moment  and  asked  her- 
self, "  Is  there  anything  else  ? "  Then  there  was  a  slippered 
foot  on  the  stair,  and  somebody  knocked. 

"  It's  only  me,  miss,  and  can  I  do  anythink  for  ye  ?" 

Glory  opened  the  door  and  found  Liza  there,  half  dressed 
and  looking  as  if  she  had  been  crying. 

"  Nothing,  Liza,  nothing,  thank  you  !  But  why  aren't 
you  in  bed  ? " 

"  I  can't  sleep  a  blessed  wink  to-night  somehow,  miss," 


508  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

said  Liza.  And  then,  looking-  into  the  room,  "  But  are  ye 
goin'  away  somewhere,  Miss  Gloria  ? " 

"Yes,  perhaps." 

"  Thort  ye  was— I  could  hear  ye  downstairs." 

"  Not  far,  though— just  a  little  journey— go  back  to  bed 
now.     Good-night ! " 

"  Good-night,  miss,"  and  Liza  went  down  with  lingering 
foot.steps. 

Half  an  hour  or  so  afterward  Glory  heard  Eosa  come  in 
from  the  office  and  pass  up  to  her  bedroom  on  the  floor 
above.  "  Dear,  unselfish  soul ! "  she  thought,  and  then  she 
sat  down  to  write  another  letter : 

"  Darling  Rosa  :  I  am  going  to  leave  you.  but  there  is  no 
help  for  it — I  must.  Don't  you  remember  I  used  to  say  if  I 
should  ever  find  a  man  who  was  willing  to  sacrifice  all  the 
world  for  me  I  would  leave  everything  and  follow  him  ? 
I  have  found  him,  dear,  and  he  has  not  only  sacrificed  all 
the  world  for  my  sake,  but  trampled  on  Heaven  itself. 
I  can't  go  to  him  now — would  to  Heaven  I  could ! — but 
neither  can  I  go  on  living  this  present  life  any  longer.  So 
I  am  turning  my  back  on  it  all,  exactly  as  I  said  I  would 
— the  world,  so  sweet  and  so  cruel ;  art,  so  beautiful  and  so 
difficult,  and  oven  '  the  clapping  of  hands  in  a  theatre.'  You 
will  say  I  am  a  donkey,  and  so  I  may  be,  but  it  must  be  a 
descendant  of  Balaam's  old  friend,  who  knew  the  way  she 
ought  to  go. 

"  Forgive  me  that  I  am  going  without  saying  good-bye. 
It  is  enough  to  have  to  resist  the  battering  of  one's  own 
doubts  without  encountering  your  dear  solicitations.  And 
forgive  me  that  I  am  not  telling  you  where  I  am  going  and 
what  is  to  become  of  me.  You  will  be  questioned  and  ex- 
amined, and  I  feel  as  much  frightened  of  being  overtaken 
by  my  old  existence  as  the  poor  simpleton  who  took  it  into 
Ins  liead  that  he  was  a  grain  of  barley,  and  as  often  as  he 
saw  a  cock  or  a  hen  he  ran  for  his  life.  Thank  you,  dearest, 
for  allowing  me  to  sliare  your  sweet  rooms  with  you,  for  the 
bright  hours  we  have  spent  in  them,  and  all  the  merry  jaunts 
we  liave  had  togetlier.  There  will  be  fewer  creature  com- 
forts  where  I  am  going  to,  and   my   feet   will  not  be  so 


SANCTUARY.  509 

quick  to  do  evil,  which  v»'ill  at  least  be  a  saving  of  shoe- 
leather. 

"  Good-bye,  old  girl — loyal,  unselfish,  devoted  friend  ! 
God  will  reward  you  yet,  and  a  good  man  who  has  been 
chasing  a  Will-o'-the-wisp  will  open  his  eyes  to  see  that  all 
the  time  the  star  of  the  morning  has  been  by  his  side.  To- 
morrow, when  I  leave  the  house,  I  know  I  shall  want  to  run 
up  and  ki.ss  you  as  you  lie  asleep,  but  I  mustn't  do  that — the 
little  druggeted  stairs  to  your  room  would  be  like  the  road 
to  another  but  not  a  better  place,  which  is  also  paved  with 
good  intentions.  What  a  scatter-brain  I  am  !  My  heart  is 
breaking,  too,  with  all  this  severing  of  my  poor  little  x'iven 
cords.     Your  foolish  old  chummie  (the  last  of  her), 

"  Glory." 

Next  morning,  almost  as  soon  as  it  was  light,  she  rose 
and  drew  a  little  tin  box  from  under  the  bed.  It  was  the 
box  that  had  brought  all  her  belongings  to  London  when 
she  first  came  from  her  island  home.  Out  of  this  box  she 
took  a  simple  gray  costume — the  costume  she  had  bought 
for  outdoor  wear  when  a  nurse  at  the  hospital.  Putting  it 
on,  she  looked  at  herself  in  the  glass.  The  plain  gray  figure, 
so  unlike  what  she  had  been  the  night  before,  sent  a  little 
stab  to  her  heart,  and  she  sighed. 

"  But  this  is  Glory,  after  all,"  she  thought.  "  This  is  the 
granddaughter  of  my  gi-andfather,  the  daughter  of  my  fa- 
ther, and  not  the  visionary  woman  who  has  been  masquer- 
ading in  London  so  long."  But  the  conceit  did  not  comfort 
her  very  much,  and  scalding  tear-drops  began  to  fall. 

Tying  up  some  other  clothing  into  a  little  bundle,  she 
opened  the  door  and  listened.  There  was  no  noise  in  the 
house,  and  she  crept  downstairs  with  a  light  tread.  At 
the  drawing-room  she  paused  and  took  one  last  look  round 
at  the  place  where  she  had  spent  so  many  exciting  hours, 
and  lived  through  such  various  phases  of  life.  While  she 
stood  on  the  threshold  there  was  a  sound  of  heavy  breath- 
ing. It  came  from  the  pug,  which  lay  coiled  up  on  the  sofa, 
asleep.  Reproaching  herself  with  having  forgotten  the  little 
thing,  she  took  it  up  in  her  arms  and  hushed  it  when  it  awoke 
and  began  to  whine.    Then  she  crept  down  to  the  front  door, 


5JQ  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

opened  it  softly,  passed  out,  and  closed  it  after  her.  There 
was  a  click  of  the  lock  in  the  silent  gardens,  and  then  no 
sound  anj-where  but  the  chirrup  of  the  sparrows  in  the 
eaves. 

The  sun  was  beginning  to  climb  over  the  cool  and  quiet 
streets  as  she  went  along,  and  some  cabmen  at  the  stand 
looked  over  at  the  woman  in  nurse's  dress,  with  a  little 
bundle  in  one  hand  and  the  dog  under  the  other  arm. 
"Been  to  a  death,  p'r'aps.     Some  uv  these  nurses,  they've 

tender  'earts,  bless  'em,  and  when  I  was  in  the  'awspital " 

But  she  turned  her  head  and  hurried  on,  and  the  voice  was 
lost  in  the  empty  air. 

As  she  dipi^ed  into  the  slums  of  "Westminster  the  sun 
gleamed  on  her  wet  face,  and  a  group  of  noisy,  happy  girls, 
going  to  their  work  in  the  jam  factories  of  Soho,  came 
towai'd  her  laughing. 

The  girls  looked  at  the  Sister  as  she  passed  ;  their  tongues 
stopped,  and  there  was  a  hush. 


XII. 

JoHX  Storm's  enemies  had  succeeded.  He  was  com- 
mitted for  sedition,  and  there  was  the  probability  that  when 
brought  up  again  he  would  be  charged  with  complicity  in 
manslaughter.  Throughout  the  proceedings  at  the  police 
court  he  maintained  a  calm  and  dignified  silence.  Sup- 
ported by  an  exalted  faith,  he  regarded  even  death  with 
couiposure.  When  the  trial  was  over  and  the  policeman 
wlio  stood  at  tbe  back  of  the  dock  tapped  him  on  the  arm, 
he  started  like  a  man  whose  mind  had  been  occupied  by 
other  issues. 

"  Eh  ? " 

"  Come,"  said  the  policeman,  and  he  was  taken  back  to 
the  cells. 

Next  day  he  Avas  removed  to  II(jllo\vay,  and  there  he 
ob.served  the  .same  calm  and  silent  attitude.  His  bearing 
touched  and  impressed  the  authorities,  and  they  tried  by 
various  .small  kindnesses  to  make  his  imprisonment  easy. 
He  encuurugcd  them  Init  little. 


SANCTUARY.  511 

On  the  second  morning  an  officer  came  to  his  cell  and 
said,  "Perhaps  you  would  care  to  look  at  the  newspaper, 
Father  ? " 

"Thank  you,  no,"  he  answered.  "The  newspapers  were 
never  much  to  me  even  when  I  was  living'  in  the  world — 
they  can  not  be  necessary  now  that  I  am  going  out 
of  it." 

"  Oh,  come,  you  exaggerate  your  danger.  Besides,  now 
that  the  papers  contain  so  much  about  yourself " 

"  That  is  a  reason  why  I  should  not  see  them." 

"  Well,  to  tell  you  the  truth.  Father,  this  morning's 
paper  has  something  about  somebody  else,  and  that  was 
why  I  brought  it." 

'•  Eh  ? " 

"  Somebody  near  to  you — very  near  and But  111 

leave  it  with  you Nothing  to  complain  of  this  morning 

—no  ?  " 

But  John  Storm  was  already  deep  in  the  columns  of  the 
newspaper.  He  found  the  news  intended  for  him.  It  was 
the  death  of  his  father.  The  paragraph  was  cruel  and  mei'- 
ciless.  "  Thus  the  unhapjjy  man  who  was  brought  up  at 
Bow  Street  two  days  ago  is  now  a  peer  in  his  own  right  and 
the  immediate  heir  to  an  earldom." 

The  moment  was  a  bitter  and  terrible  one.  Memories  of 
past  years  swept  over  him — half -forgotten  incidents  of  his 
boyhood  when  his  father  was  his  only  friend  and  he  walked 
with  his  hand  in  his — memories  of  his  father's  love  for 
him,  his  hopes,  his  aims,  his  ambitions,  and  all  tlie  vast  ado 
of  his  poor  delusive  dreams.  And  then  came  thouglits  of 
the  broken  old  man  dying  alone,  and  of  himself  in  his 
prison  cell.  It  had  been  a  strangely  familiar  thought  to 
him  of  late  that  if  he  left  London  at  seven  in  the  moi'ning 
he  could  speak  to  his  father  at  seven  the  same  night.  And 
now  his  father  was  gone,  the  last  op])ortunity  was  lost,  and 
he  could  speak  to  him  no  more. 

But  he  tried  to  conquer  the  call  of  bk)od  which  he  had 
put  aside  so  long,  and  to  set  over  against  it  the  claims  of  his 
exalted  mission  and  the  spirit  of  the  teaching  of  Christ. 
What  had  Christ  said  ?  "  Call  no  man  your  father  upon 
the  earth  ;  for  one  is  your  Father  which  is  in  heaven  !  " 


512 


THE  CHRISTIAN. 


"  Yes,"  he  thought,  "  that's  it—'  for  one  is  your  Father 
which  is  in  heaven.'  " 

Tlicn  he  took  up  the  newspaper  again,  thinking  to  read 
with  a  calmer  mind  the  report  of  his  father's  death  and 
burial,  but  his  eye  fell  on  a  different  matter. 

"Another  Mysterious  Disappearance. — Hardly  has 
the  public  mind  recovered  from  the  perplexity  attending 
the  disappearance  of  a  w^ell-known  clergyman  from  West- 
minster, wlien  the  news  comes  of  a  no  less  mysterious 
disappearance  of  a  popular  actress  from  a  West-End 
theatre." 

It  was  Glory ! 

"  Although  a  recent  acquisition  to  the  stage  and  the  latest 
English  actress  to  come  into  her  heritage  of  fame,  she  was 
already  a  universal  favourite,  and  her  sudden  and  unac- 
countable disappearance  is  a  shock  as  well  as  a  surprise.  To 
the  disappointment  of  the  public  she  had  not  played  her  part 
for  nearly  a  week,  having  excused  herself  on  the  ground  of 
indisposition,  but  there  was  apparently  nothing  in  the  state 
of  her  health  to  give  cause  for  anxiety  or  to  prepare  her 
friends  for  the  step  she  has  taken.  What  has  become  of  her 
appears  to  be  entirely  beyond  conjecture,  but  her  colleagues 
and  associates  are  still  hoping  for  the  best,  thovigh  the  tone 
of  a  letter  left  behind  gives  only  too  much  reason  to  fear  a 
sad  and  perhaps  fatal  sequel." 

When  the  officer  entered  the  cell  again  an  hour  after  his 
first  visit.  John  Storm  was  pallid  and  thin  and  gray.  The 
sublime  faith  he  had  built  up  for  himself  had  fallen  to 
ruins,  a  cloud  had  hidden  the  face  of  the  Father  which  was 
in  heaven,  and  the  death  he  had  waited  for  as  the  crown  of 
his  life  seemed  to  be  no  better  than  an  abject  end  to  a  career 
that  had  failed. 

"Cheer  up,"  said  the  officer;  "I've  some  good  news  for 
you.  at  all  events." 

Tiie  prisoner  smiled  .sadly  and  shook  his  head. 

"  Bail  was  offered  and  accepted  at  Bow  Street  this  morn- 
ing, and  you  will  be  at  liberty  to  leave  us  to-day." 

"  When  ? "  said  John,  and  his  manner  changed  imme- 
diately. 

"  Well,  not  just  yet,  you  know." 


SANCTUARY.  513 

"  For  the  love  of  God,  sir,  let  me  go  at  once  I  I  have 
something-  to  do — somebody  to  look  for  and  find." 

"  Still,  for  your  own  security,  Father " 

"  But  why  ? " 

"  Then  you  don't  know  that  the  mob  sent  a  dog  out  in 
search  of  you  ?  0 

"  No,  I  didn't  know  tliat ;  but  if  all  the  dogs  of  Christen- 
dom  " 

"  There  are  worse  dogs  waiting  for  you  than  any  that  go 
on  four  legs,  you  know." 

"That's  nothing,  sir,  nothing  at  all ;  and  if  bail  has  been 
accepted,  surely  it  is  your  duty  to  liberate  rae  at  once.  I 
claim — I  demand  that  you  should  do  so  !  " 

The  officer  raised  his  eyes  in  astonishment.  "  You  sur- 
prise me.  Father.  After  yoixr  calmness  and  patience  and 
submission  to  authority  too  !  " 

John  Storm  remained  silent  for  a  moment,  and  then  he 
said,  with  a  touching  solemnity :  "  You  must  forgive  me, 
sir.  You  are  very  g'ood — everybody  is  good  to  me  here. 
Still,  I  am  not  afraid,  and  if  you  can  let  me  go " 

The  officer  left  him.  It  was  several  hours  before  he  re- 
turned. By  this  time  the  long  summer  day  had  closed  in, 
and  it  was  quite  dai'k. 

•'  They  think  you've  gone.  Y'ou  can  leave  now.  Come 
this  way." 

At  tlie  door  of  the  office  some  minutes  afterward  John 
Storm  paused  with  the  officer's  hand  in  his,  and  said  : 

"  Perhaps  it  is  needless  to  ask  who  is  my  bail "  (he 
was  thinking  of  Mrs.  Callender),  "but  if  you  can  tell 
me " 

"  Certainly.     It  was  Sir  Francis  Drake." 

John  Storm  bowed  gravely  and  turned  away.  As  he 
passed  out  of  the  yard  his  eyes  were  bent  on  the  ground 
and  his  step  was  slow  and  feeble. 

At  that  moment  Drake  was  on  his  way  to  the  Corinthian 
Club.  Early  in  the  afternoon  he  had  seen  this  letter  in  the 
columns  of  an  evening  paper  : 

"The  Mysterious  Disappearances. — Is- it  not  extraor- 
dinary that  in  discussing  '  the  epidemic  of  mystery  '  which 


514  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

now  fills  the  air  of  London  it  has  apparently  never  occurred 
to  any  one'  that  the  two  mysterious  disappearances  which 
are  tlie  text  of  so  many  sermons  may  be  i-eally  one  disap- 
pearance only,  that  the  '  man  of  God  '  and  the  '  woman  of 
the  theatre '  may  have  acted  in  collusion,  from  the  same  im- 
pulse and  with  the  same  expectation,  and  that  the  rich  and 
beneficent  person  who  (according  to  the  latest  report)  has 
come  to  the  rescue  of  the  one,  and  is  an  active  agent  in 
looking  for  the  other,  is  in  reality  the  foolish  though  well- 
meaning  victim  of  both  ? — R.  U." 

For  three  hours  Drake  had  searched  for  Lord  Robert 
with  flame  in  his  eyes  and  fury  in  his  looks.  Going  first  to 
Belgrave  Square,  he  had  found  the  blinds  down  and  the 
house  shut  up.  Mrs.  Macrae  was  dead.  She  had  died  at  a 
lodging  in  the  country,  alone  and  unattended.  Her  wealth 
had  not  been  able  to  buy  the  devotion  of  one  faithful  serv- 
ant at  the  end.  She  had  left  nothing  to  her  daughter  ex- 
cept a  remonstrance  against  her  behaviour,  but  she  had 
made  Lord  Robert  her  chief  heir  and  sole  executoi-. 

That  amiable  mourner  had  returned  to  London  with  all 
possible  despatch  as  soon  as  the  breath  was  out  of  his 
mother-in-law's  body  and  arrangements  were  made  for  its 
transit.  He  was  now  engaged  in  relieving  the  tension  of  so 
nmch  unusual  emotion  by  a  round  of  his  nightly  pleasures. 
Drake  had  come  up  with  him  at  last. 

The  Corinthian  Club  was  unusually  gay  that  night. 
"  Hello  there  ! "  came  from  every  side.  The  music  in  the 
ballroom  was  louder  than  ever,  and,  judging  by  the  num- 
bers of  the  dancers,  the  attraction  of  "  Tra-la-la  "  was  even 
greater  than  before.  There  was  the  note  of  yet  more  reck- 
less license  evei-ywhere,  as  if  that  little  world  whose  life 
Avas  pleasure  had  been  under  the  cloud  of  a  temporary  ter- 
i-(.r  and  was  determined  to  make  up  for  it  by  the  wildest 
folly.  The  men  chaffed  and  laughed  and  shouted  comic 
songs  and  kicked  their  legs  about;  the  women  drank  and 
giggled. 

Lord  Robert  was  in  the  supper-room  with  three  guests— 
the  "  tln-ee  graces."  The  women  were  in  full  evening  dress. 
Betty  was  wearing  the  ring  she  had  taken  from  Polly  "just 
to  remen.ber  her  by,  pore  thing,"  and  the  others  were  blaz-* 


SANCTUARY.  515 

ing  in  similar  brilliants.  The  wretched  man  himself  was 
half  drunk.  He  had  been  talking  of  Father  Storm  and  of 
his  own  wife  in  a  jaunty  tone,  behind  which  tliere  was  an 
intensity  of  hatred. 

"  But  this  i>anic  of  his,  don't  you  know,  was  the  funniest 
thing  ever  heard  of.  Going  home  that  night  I  counted 
seventeen  people  on  their  knees  in  the  streets — 'pon  my  soul 
I  did  !  Eleven  old  women  of  eighty,  two  or  three  of  seventy, 
and  one  or  two  that  might  be  as  young  as  sixty-nine.  Then 
the  epideiuic  of  piety  in  high  life  too  !  Several  of  our  mil- 
lionaires gave  sixpence  apiece  to  beggars— were  seen  to  do  it, 
don't  you  know.  One  old  girl  gave  up  playing  baccarat  and 
subscribed  to  '  Darkest  England.'  No  end  of  sweet  little 
women  confessed  their  pretty  Aveaknesses  to  their  husbands, 
and  now  that  the  world  is  wagging  along  as  merrily  as  be- 
fore, they   don't  know  what  the  devil  they  are  to  do 

But  look  here !  " 

Out  of  his  trousers  pockets  at  either  side  he  tugged  a 
torn  and  crumpled  assortment  of  letters  and  proceeded  to 
tumble  them  on  to  the  table. 

"  These  are  a  few  of  the  applications  I  had  from  curates- 
in-charge  and  such  beauties  for  the  care  of  the  living  in 
Westminster  while  the  other  gentleman  lay  in  jail.  It's 
tiie  Bishop's  right  to  api^oint  the  creature,  don't  you  know, 

but  they  think  a  patron's  recommendation Oh,  they're 

a  sweet  team !  Listen  to  this :  *  May  it  please  your  lord- 
ship  ' " 

And  then  in  mock  tones,  flourishing  one  hand,  the  man 
read  aloud  amid  the  various  noises  of  tlie  place — the  pop  of 
champagne  bottles  and  the  rumble  of  the  dancing  in  the 
room  below — the  fulsome  letters  he  had  received  from 
clergymen.  The  wretched  women  in  their  paint  and 
j)atches  shrieked  with  laughter. 

It  was  at  that  moment  Drake  came  up,  looking  pale  and 
fierce. 

"  Hello  there !  Is  it  you  ?  Sit  down  and  take  a  glass 
of  fizz." 

"Not  at  this  table,"  said  Drake.  "  I  prefer  to  drink  with 
friends." 

Lord  Robert's   eyes  glistened,  and    he    tried   to  smile. 


516 


THE  CHRISTIAN. 


"  Really  ?  Thought  I  was  counted  in  that  distinguished 
company,  don't  you  know." 

"  So  you  were,  but  I've  come  to  see  that  a  friend  who  is 
not  a  friend  is  always  the  worst  enemy." 

"What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"What  does  that  mean?"  said  Drake,  throwing  the 
paper  on  to  the  table. 

"Well,  what  of  it?" 

"  Tlie  initials  to  that  letter  are  yours,  and  all  the  men  I 
meet  tell  me  that  you  liave  written  it." 

"  They  do,  do  they  ?    Well  ?  " 

"  I  won't  ask  you  if  you  did  or  if  you  didn't." 

"Don't,  dear  boy." 

"  But  I'll  require  you  to  disown  it,  publicly  and  at  once." 

"  And  if  I  won't — what  then  ?  " 

"Then  I'll  tell  the  public  for  myself  that  it's  a  lie,  a 
cowardly  and  contemptible  lie,  and  that  the  man  who 
wrote  it  is  a  cur ! " 

"  Oho !  So  it's  like  that,  is  it  ? "  said  Lord  Robert,  rising 
to  his  feet  as  if  putting  himself  on  guard. 

"  Yes,  it  is  like  that,  Lord  Robert  Ure.  because  the  woman 
who  is  slandered  in  that  letter  is  as  innocent  as  your  own 
wife,  and  ten  thousand  times  as  pure  as  those  who  are  your 
constant  company." 

Lord  Robert's  angular  and  ugly  face  glistened  with  a 
hateful  smile.  "  Innoc^t ! "  he  cried  hoarsely,  and  then  he 
laughed  out  aloud.  "  Go  on  !  It's  rippin'  to  hear  you,  dear 
boy  I  Innocent,  by  God  !  Just  as  innocent  as  any  other 
liallct  girl  who  is  dragged  through  the  stews  of  London, 
and  then  picked  up  at  last  by  the  born  fool  who  keeps  her 
for  another  man.'' 

"  You  liar  !  "  cried  Drake,  and  like  a  flash  of  light  he  had 
shot  his  fist  across  the  table  and  struck  the  man  full  in  the 
face.  Then  laying  hold  of  the  table  itself,  lie  swept  it  away 
with  all  that  was  on  it,  and  sprang  at  Lord  Robert  and  took 
him  by  the  throat. 

"  Talve  that  back,  will  you  ?    Take  it  back  !  " 

"  I  won't ! "  cried  Lord  Robert,  writhing  and  stiiiggling 
in  his  grip. 

"  Then  take  that— and  that— and  that— damn  you ! "  cried 


SANCTUARY.  517 

Drake,  showering  blow  after  blow,  and  finally  fling-ing  the 
man  into  the  debris  of  what  had  fallen  from  the  table  with 
a  crash. 

The  women  were  sci'eaming  by  this  time  and  all  the 
house  was  in  alarm.  But  Drake  went  out  with  long  strides 
and  a  ferocious  face,  and  no  one  attempted  to  stop  him. 


XIII. 

Eeturning  to  St.  James's  Street,  Drake  found  John 
Storm  waiting  in  his  rooms.  The  men  had  changed  a  good 
deal  since  they  last  met,  and  the  faces  of  both  showed  suf- 
fering. 

"Forgive  me  for  this  visit,"  said  Storm.  "It  was  my 
first  duty  to  call  and  thank  you  for  what  youVe  done." 

"  That's  nothing — uothing  at  all,"  said  Drake. 

"  I  had  also  another  object.     You'll  know  what  that  is." 

Drake  bowed  his  head. 

"  She  is  gone,  it  seems,  and  there  is  no  trace  left  of 
her." 

"  None ! " 

"Tlien  yoH  know  nothing  ?" 

"  Nothing  !     And  you  ? " 

"  Nothing  whatever  !  " 

Drake  bowed  his  head  again.  "  I  knew  it  was  a  lie — that 
she  had  gone  after  you — I  never  believed  that  story." 

"  Would  to  God  she  liad ! "  said  Storm  fervently,  and 
Drake  flinched,  but  bore  himself  bravely.  ''  When  did  she 
go?" 

"  Two  days  ago,  apparently." 

"  Has  anybody  looked  for  her  ?  " 

"  I  have — everywhere — everywhere  I  can  think  of.  But 
this  London " 

"  Yes,  yes  ;  I  know — I  know  !  " 

"  For  two  days  I  have  never  rested,  and  all  last  night." 

Storm's  eyes  were  watching  the  twitch ings  of  Drake's 
face.  He  had  been  sitting  uneasily  on  his  chair,  and  now 
he  rose  from  it. 

"Are  you  going  already  ? "  said  Drake. 


518 


THE  CHRISTIAN. 


"  Yes,"  said  Storm.  Then  in  a  husky  voice  he  added : 
"I  don't  know  if  we  shall  ever  meet  again,  you  and  I. 
When  death  breaks  the  link  that  binds  people " 

"  For  God"s  sake  don't  say  that ! " 

"  But  it  is  so,  isn't  it  ? " 

"  Heaven  knows !    Certainly  the  letter  she  left  behind — 

the  letter  to  Eosa Poor  child,  she  was  such  a  creature  of 

joy— so  bright,  so  bi'illiant !    And  then  to  think  of  her 

I  was  mucli  to  blame— I  came  between  you.  But  if  I  had 
once  realized " 

Drake  stopped,  and  the  men  fixed  their  eyes  on  each  other 
for  a  moment,  and  then  turned  their  heads  away. 

"I'm  afraid  I've  done  you  a  great  injustice,  sir,"  said 
Storm. 

"Me?" 

"  I  thought  she  was  only  your  toy,  your  plaything.  But 
perhaps  "  (his  voice  was  breaking) — "  perhaps  you  loved  her 
too." 

Drake  answered,  almost  inaudibly,  "  With  all  my  heart 
and  soul ! " 

"  Then— then  we  have  both  lost  her  ! " 

"Both!" 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment.  The  hands  of  the  two 
men  met  and  clasped  and  parted. 

"  I  must  go,"  said  Storm,  and  he  moved  across  the  room 
with  a  look  of  utter  weariness. 

"  But  where  are  you  going  to  ? " 

"I  don't  know — anywhere — nowhere — it  doesn't  matter 
now." 

"Well " 

"  Good-night ! " 

"  Good-niglit ! " 

Drake  stood  at  the  door  below  until  the  slow,  uncertain 
footste])s  had  turned  the  corner  of  the  street  and  died  away. 

Jolin  Storm  was  sure  now.  Overwhelmed  by  his  own 
disgrace,  ashamed  of  his  downfall,  and  perhaps  with  a  sense 
of  her  own  share  in  it.  Glory  had  destroyed  herself. 

Strange  contradiction !  Much  as  he  had  hated  Glory's 
way  of  life,  there  came  to  him  at  the  moment  a  deep  riMuorse 
at  the  thought  that  he  had  been  the  means  of  putting  an 


SANCTUARY.  5I9 

end  to  it.  And  then  her  o-ay  and  happy  spirit  clouded  by 
his  own  disasters !  Her  good  name  stained  by  association 
with  his  evil  one  !  Her  pure  soul  imperilled  by  bis  sin  and 
fall! 

But  it  was  now  very  late  and  he  began  to  ask  himself 
where  he  was  to  sleep.  At  first  he  thought  of  his  old  quar- 
ters under  the  church,  and  then  he  told  himself  that  Brother 
Andrew  would  be  gone  by  this  time,  and  that  everj-thing 
connected  with  the  parish  must  be  transferred  to  other  keep- 
ing. Going  by  a  hotel  in  Trafalgar  Square  he  stepped  in  and 
asked  for  a  bed. 

"  Certainly,  sir,"  said  the  clerk,  who  was  polite  and  def- 
erential. 

"  Can  I  have  something  to  eat,  too  ? " 

"  Coffee-room  to  the  left,  sir.     Luggage  coming,  sir  ? " 

"I  have  no  luggage  to-night,"  he  answered,  and  then  he 
saw  that  the  clerk  looked  at  him  doubtfully. 

The  cotTee-room  was  empty  and  only  half  lit  up,  for  din- 
ner was  long  over  and  the  business  of  the  day  was  done. 
John  was  sitting  at  his  meal,  eating  his  food  with  his  eyes 
down  and  hardly  conscious  of  what  was  going  on  around, 
when  he  became  aware  that  from  time  to  time  people  opened 
the  room  door  and  looked  across  at  him,  then  whispered  to- 
gether and  passed  out.  At  length  the  clerk  came  uj)  to  him 
with  awkward  manners  and  a  look  of  constraint. 

"  I  beg  your  pai'don,  sir,  but — are  you  Father  Storm  ? " 

John  bent  his  head. 

"  Then  I'm  sorry  to  say  we  can  not  accommodate  you — 
we  dare  not — we  must  request  you  to  leave." 

John  rose  without  a  word,  paid  his  bill,  and  left  the 
place. 

But  where  was  he  to  go  to  ?  What  house  would  receive 
him  ?  If  one  hotel  refused  him,  all  other  hotels  in  London 
would  do  the  same.  Then  he  remembered  the  shelter  which 
he  had  himself  established  for  the  undeserving  poor.  The 
humiliation  of  that  moment  was  terrible.  But  no  mat- 
ter !  He  would  drink  the  cup  of  God's  anger  to  the 
dregs. 

The  lamp  was  burning  in  the  clock  tower  of  the  Houses 
of  Parliament,  and  as  John  passed  by  the  corner  of  Palace 


520  THE   CHRISTIAN. 

Yard  two  Bishops  came  out  in  earuest  conversation,  and 
walked  on  in  front  of  liini. 

"  The  State  and  the  Church  are  as  the  body  and  soul," 
said  one,  "  and  to  separate  them  would  be  death  to  both." 

"Just  that,"  said  the  other,  "and  therefore  we  must  fight 
for  the  Church's  tempoi'al  possessions  as  we  should  contend 
for  her  spiritual  rights  ;  and  so  these  Benefice  Bills " 

The  shelter  was  at  the  point  of  closing,  and  Jupe  was 
putting  out  the  lamp  over  the  door  as  John  stepped  up  to 
him. 

"  Who  is  it  ?  "  said  Jupe  in  the  dark. 

"  Don't  you  know  me,  Jupe  ?  "  said  John. 

"Father  Jawn  Storm !"  cried  the  man  in  a  whisper  of 
fear. 

"  I  want  shelter  for  the  night,  Jupe.  Can  you  put  me  up 
anywhere  ? " 

"  You,  sir  ? " 

The  man  was  staggered  and  the  long  rod  in  his  hand 
shook  like  a  reed.  Then  he  began  to  stammer  something 
about  the  Bishop  and  the  Archdeacon  and  his  new  orders 
and  instructions— how  the  shelter  had  been  taken  over  by 
other  authorities,  and  he  was  now 

"  But  d it  all ! "  he  said,  stopping  suddenly,  putting  his 

foot  down  firmly,  and  wagging  his  head  to  right  and  left 
like  a  man  making  a  brave  resolution,  "  I'll  tyke  ye  in,  sir, 
and  heng  it ! " 

It  was  the  bitterest  pill  of  all,  but  John  swallowed  it,  and 
stepped  into  the  house.  As  he  did  so  he  was  partly  aware 
of  some  tumult  in  a  neighbouring  street,  with  the  screaming 
of  men  and  women  and  the  barking  of  dogs. 

The  blankets  had  been  served  out  for  the  night  and  the 
men  hi  the  shelter  Avere  clambering  up  to  their  bunks.  In 
addition  to  the  main  apartment  there  was  a  little  rooiu  with 
a  glass  front  Avhich  hung  like  a  cage  near  to  the  ceiling  at 
one  end  and  was  entered  by  a  circular  iron  stair.  This  was 
tiie  keeper's  own  sleei)ing  place,  and  Jupe  was  making  it 
ready  for  John,  while  John  himself  sat  waiting  with  the 
look  of  a  crushed  and  humiliated  man,  when  the  tumult  in 
the  street  came  nearer  and  at  last  drew  up  in  front  of  the 
house. 


SANCTUARY.  521 

"  Wot's  tliet  ? "  the  men  asked  each  other,  lifting  their 
heads,  and  Jupe  came  down  and  went  to  the  door.  When 
he  returned  his  face  was  white,  the  sweat  hung  on  his  fore- 
head, and  a  trembling  shook  his  whole  body. 

"For  Gawd's  sake.  Father,  leave  the  house  at  onct!"  he 
whispered  in  great  agitation.  "  There's  a  gang  outside  a.s'11 
pull  the  place  dahn  if  I  keep  you." 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment,  save  for  the  shouting 
outside,  and  then  John  said,  with  a  sigh  and  a  look  of  resig- 
nation, "Very  well,  let  me  out,  then,"  and  he  turned  to  the 
door. 

"  Not  that  wy,  sir — this  wy,''  said  Jupe,  and  at  the  next 
moment  they  were  stepping  into  a  dark  and  narrow  lane  at 
the  back.  "  Turn  to  the  left  when  ye  get  ter  the  bottom, 
Father — mind  ye  turn  ter  the  left." 

But  John  Storm  had  scarcely  heard  him.  His  heart  had 
failed  him  at  last.  He  saw  the  baseness  and  ingratitude  of 
the  people  whom  he  had  spent  himself  to  relieve  and  uplift 
and  succoiu"  and  comfort,  and  he  repented  himself  of  the 
hopes  and  aims  and  efforts  which  had  come  to  this  bank- 
ruptcy in  the  end. 

"  My  God,  my  God,  why  hast  thou  forsaken  me  ?" 

Yes,  yes,  that  was  it !  It  was  not  this  poor  vile  race 
merely,  this  stupid  and  ungrateful  humanity — it  was  God  t 
God  used  one  man's  ignorance,  and  another  man's  anger, 
and  another  man's  hatred,  and  another  man's  spite,  and 
woi'ked  out  his  own  ends  thi'ough  it  all.  And  God  had 
rejected  him.  refused  him,  turned  a  deaf  ear  to  his  prayer 
and  his  rej)ei]tance,  robbed  him  of  friends,  of  affection,  of 
love,  and  cast  him  out  of  the  family  of  man  ! 

Very  well !  So  be  it !  What  should  he  do  ?  He  would 
go  back  to  prison  and  say :  "  Take  me  in  again — there  is  no 
room  left  for  me  in  the  world.  I  am  alone,  and  my  heart  is 
dead  within  me  ! " 

He  was  at  the  end  of  the  dark  lane  by  this  time,  and  for- 
getting Jupe's  warning,  and  seeing  a  briglitly  lighted  street 
running  off  to  his  right,  he  swung  round  to  it  and  walked 
boldly  along.  This  was  Old  Pye  Street,  and  he  had  come 
to  the  corner  at  which  it  opens  into  Brown's  Square  when 
his  absent  mind  became  conscious  of  the  loud  baying  of  a 
34 


g22  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

do"-.  At  the  next  moment  the  dog  was  at  his  feet,  bound- 
ing about  him  with  frantic  delight,  leaping  up  to  him  us  if 
trying  to  kiss  him,  and  uttering  meanwhile  the  most  tender, 
the  most  true,  the  most  pitiful  cries  of  love. 

It  was  his  own  dog,  the  bloodhound  Don  ! 

His  unworthy  thoughts  were  chased  away  at  the  sight  of 
this  one  faithful  friend  remaining,  and  he  was  stooping  to 
fundle  tlie  great  creature,  to  pull  at  the  long  drapery  of  its 
eai's  and  the  pendulous  folds  of  its  glorious  forehead,  when 
a  short,  sharp  cry  caused  him  to  lift  his  head. 

"Thet's  'im!"  said  somebody,  and  then  he  was  aware 
that  a  group  of  men  with  evil  faces  had  gathered  round. 
He  knew  them  in  a  moment :  the  publican  with  his  band- 
aged head,  Sharkey,  who  had  served  his  time  and  been 
relea.sed  from  prison,  and  Pincher  and  Hawkins,  who  were 
out  on  bail.  They  had  all  been  drinking.  The  publican, 
who  cari'ied  a  stick,  was  drunk,  and  the  "knocker-up"  was 
staggering  on  a  crutch. 

Then  came  a  hideous  scene.  The  four  men  began  to 
taunt  John  Storm,  to  take  off  their  hats  and  bow  to  him  in 
mock  honour.  "  His  Lordship,  I  believe  ! '"  said  one.  "  His 
Reverend  Lordship,  if  you  please  ! "  said  another. 

"  Leave  me ;  for  God's  sake,  leave  me  ! "  said  John. 

But  their  taunts  became  more  and  more  menacing.  "  Wot 
abart  the  end  uv  the  world.  Father  ? "  "  Didn't  ye  tell  me 
to  sell  my  bit  uv  biziness?"  "And  didn't  ye  say  you'd 
cured  me  ?  and  look  at  me  now  !  " 

"Don't,  I  tell  you,  don't!"  cried  John,  and  he  moved 
away. 

They  followed  and  began  to  push  him.  Then  he  stopped 
and  cried  in  a  loud  voice  of  struggle  and  agony:  "Do  you 
want  to  raise  the  devil  in  me  ?    Go  home !    Go  home ! "  " 

But  they  only  laughed  and  renewed  their  torment.  His 
hat  fell  olf  and  he  snatched  at  it  to  recover  it.  In  doing  so 
his  liiind  struck  somebody  in  the  face.  "Strike  a  cripple, 
will  yoV  said  the  publican,  and  he  raised  his  stick  and 
sli-iick  a  heavy  blow  on  John's  shoulder.  At  the  next  rao- 
niciit  the  dog  had  leaped  upon  the  man,  and  he  was  shriek- 
ing on  the  ground.  The  "knocker-up"  lifted  his  crutch 
and  with  the  upper  end  of  it  he  battered  at  the  dog's  brains. 


SANCTUARY.  523 

"  Stop,  man  !  stop,  stop  ! — Don  !     Don  ! " 

But  the  dog-  held  on,  and  the  man  with  the  crutch  con- 
tinued to  strike  at  it,  until  Pincher,  who  had  run  to  the 
other  side  of  the  street,  came  back  with  a  clasp  knife  and 
plunged  it  into  the  dog's  neck.  Then  with  a  growl  and  a 
wliine  and  a  pitiful  cry  the  creature  let  go  its  hold  and 
rolled  over,  and  the  publican  got  on  to  his  feet. 

It  was  the  beginning-  of  the  end.  John  Storm  looked 
down  at  the  dog  in  its  death-throes,  and  all  the  devil  in  his 
heart  came  up  and  mastered  him.  There  was  a  shop  at  the 
corner  of  the  square,  and  some  heavy  chairs  were  standing 
on  the  pavement.  He  took  up  one  of  these  and  swung  it 
round  him  like  a  toy,  and  the  men  fell  on  every  side. 

By  this  time  the  street  was  in  commotion,  and  people 
were  coming  from  every  court  and  yard  and  alley  crying : 
"  A  madman  !  "  "  Police  ! "  "  Lay  hold  of  him  ! "  "  He'll 
kill  somebody  !  "     "  Down  with  him  !  " 

John  Storm  was  also  shouting  at  the  top  of  his  voice, 
when  suddenly  he  felt  a  dull,  stuiniing  pain,  without  ex- 
actly knowing  where.  Then  he  felt  himself  moving  up,  up, 
up — he  was  in  a  train,  the  train  was  going  through  a  tunnel, 
and  the  guards  were  screaming  ;  then  it  was  hot  and  at  the 
next  moment  it  was  cold,  and  still  he  was  floating,  floating ; 
and  then  he  saw  Glory — he  heard  her  say  something — and 
then  he  opened  his  eyes,  and  lo !  the  dark  sky  was  above 
him,  and  some  women  were  speaking  in  agitated  voices  over 
his  face. 

"Who  is  it?" 

"  It's  Father  Storm.  The  brutes !  The  beasts !  And  the 
pore  dog,  too  !  " 

"  Oh,  dear !  Where's  the  p'lice  ?  What  are  we  goin'  to 
do  with  'im,  Aggie  ? " 

"  Tyke  'im  to  my  room,  thet's  what." 

Then  he  heard  Big  Ben  strike  twelve,  and  then It 

was  a  long,  long  journey,  and  the  tunnel  seemed  to  go  on 
and  on. 


524  THE  CHRISTIAN. 


XIV. 

Half  an  hour  afterward  there  came  to  the  door  of  the 
Orphanage  the  single  loud  thud  that  is  the  knock  of  the 
poor.  An  upper  window  was  opened,  and  a  ti-emulous  voice 
from  the  street  below  cried,  "  Glory  !     Miss  Gloria  !  " 

It  was  Agatha  Jones.  Glory  hastened  downstairs  and 
found  the  girl  in  great  agitation.  One  glance  at  her  face  in 
the  candlelight  seemed  to  tell  all. 

"  YouVe  found  him  ? " 

"  Yes ;  he's  hurt.     He's " 

"  Be  calm,  child ;  tell  me  everything,"  said  Glory,  and 
Aggie  delivered  her  message. 

Since  leaving  Hollo  way,  Father  Storm  had  been  followed 
and  found  by  means  of  the  dog.  The  crowd  had  set  on  him 
aud  knocked  him  down  and  injured  him.  He  w'as  now 
lying  in  Aggie's  room.  There  had  been  nowhere  else  to 
take  him  to,  for  the  men  had  disappeared  the  moment  he 
■was  down,  and  the  women  were  afraid  to  take  him  in.  The 
police  had  come  at  last  and  they  were  now  gone  for  the  par- 
ish doctor.  Mrs.  Pincher  was  with  the  Father,  and  the  poor 
dog  was  dead. 

Glory  held  her  hand  over  lier  heart  while  Aggie  told  her 
story.  "  I  follow  you,"  she  said.  "  Did  you  tell  him  I  was 
here  ?    Did  he  send  you  to  fetch  me  ? " 

"  He  didn't  speak,"  said  Aggie. 

"  Is  he  unconscious  ? " 

"  Yes." 

"I'll  go  with  you  at  once." 

Hurrying  across  the  streets  by  Glory's  side,  Aggie  apolo- 
gized for  lier  room  again.  "  I  down't  live  tliet  wy  now,  you 
know,"  she  said.  "  It  may  seem  strange  to  you,  but  while 
my  little  boy  was  alive  I  couldn't  go  into  the  streets  to  save 
my  life— I  couldn't  do  it.  And  when  'is  pore  father  died 
lahst  week " 

The  stone  stairs  to  the  tenement  house  were  thronged 
with  women.  They  stood  huddled  together  in  groups  like 
sheep  in  a  storm.  There  was  not  a  man  anywhere  visible, 
except  a  drunken  sailor,  who  was  coming  down  from  an 


SANCTUARY.  525 

upper  story  whistling  and  singing.  Tlio  women  silenced 
him.     Had  he  no  feelings  ? 

'*  The  doctor's  came,  Sister,"  said  a  woman  standing  by 
Aggie's  door.     Then  Glory  entei-ed  the  room. 

The  poor  disordered  place  was  lit  by  a  cheap  lamp,  which 
threw  splashes  of  light  and  left  tracts  of  shadow.  John 
lay  on  the  bed,  muttering  words  that  were  inaudible.  His 
coat  and  waistcoat  had  been  removed,  and  his  shirt  was  open 
at  the  neck.  The  high  wall  of  his  forehead  was  marble 
white,  but  his  cheeks  were  red  and  feverish.  One  of  his 
arms  lay  over  the  side  of  the  bed  and  Glory  took  it  up  and 
held  it.  Her  great  eyes  were  moist,  but  she  did  not  cry, 
neither  did  she  speak  or  move.  The  doctor  was  bathing  a 
wound  at  the  back  of  the  head,  and  he  looked  up  and  nodded 
as  Glory  entered.  At  the  other  side  of  the  bed  an  elderly 
woman  in  a  widow's  cap  was  wiping  her  eyes  with  her 
apron. 

When  the  doctor  was  going  away,  Glory  followed  him  to 
the  door. 

"  Is  he  seriously  injured,  doctor  ? " 

"Very."  The  doctor  was  a  young  man — quick,  brusque, 
and  emphatic. 

"  Not  dange " 

"Yes.  The  brutes  have  done  for  him,  nurse,  though  you 
needn't  tell  his  friends  so." 

"  Then — there  is — no  chance — whatever  ? " 

"  Not  a  ghost  of  a  chance.  By  the  way,  you  might  try  to 
find  out  where  his  friends  are,  and  send  a  line  to  them.  I'll 
be  here  in  the  morning.     Good-night !  " 

Glory  staggered  back  to  the  room,  wnth  her  hand  pressed 
hard  over  her  heart,  and  the  young  doctor,  going  downstairs 
two  steps  at  a  stride,  met  a  police  sergeant  and  a  reporter 
coming  up.  "  Cruel  business,  sir ! "  "  Yes,  but  just  one  of 
those  things  that  can't  easily  be  brought  home  to  anybody." 
"  Sad,  though  ! "    "  Very  sad  ! " 

The  short  night  seemed  as  if  it  would  never  end.  When 
daylight  came  the  cheerless  place  was  cleared  of  its  refuse 
— its  withered  roses,  its  cigarette  ends  and  its  heaps  of 
left-oif  clothing.  Toward  eight  o'clock  Glory  hurried 
back  to  the  Orphanage,  leaving  Aggie  and  Mrs.  Pincher 


i 


626 


THE  CHRISTIAN. 


> 


in  charge.  Jolm  had  been  muttering;  the  whole  night 
through,  but  he  had  never  once  moved  and  he  was  still  un- 
conscious. 

"  Good-morning,  Sister  1 " 

"  Good-morning,  children  ! " 

The  little  faces,  fresh  and  bright  from  sleep,  were  wait- 
ing for  their  breakfast.  When  the  meal  was  over  Glory- 
wrote  by  express  to  Mrs.  Calleuder  and  to  the  Father  Supe- 
rior of  the  Brotherhood,  then  put  on  her  bonnet  and  cloak 
and  turned  toward  Downing  Street. 

The  Prime  Minister  had  held  an  early  Cabinet  Council 
that  morning.  It  was  observed  by  his  colleagues  that  he 
looked  depressed  and  preoccupied.  When  the  business  of 
the  day  was  done  he  rose  to  his  feet  rather  feebly  and  said  : 

"  My  lords  and  gentlemen,  I  have  long  had  it  in  mind 
to  say  something — something  of  importance — and  I  feel  the 
impulse  to  say  it  now.  We  have  been  doing  our  best  wuth 
legislation  affecting  the  Church,  to  give  due  reality  and 
true  life  to  its  relation  with  the  State.  But  the  longer  I  live 
the  more  I  feel  that  that  relation  is  in  itself  a  false  one, 
injurious  and  even  dangerous  to  both  alike.  Never  in 
history,  so  far  as  I  know,  and  certainly  never  Avithin  my 
own  experience,  has  it  been  possible  to  maintain  the  union 
of  Church  and  State  without  frequent  adultery  and  corrup- 
tion. The  effort  to  do  so  has  resulted  in  manifest  impos- 
tures in  sacred  things,  in  ceremonies  without  spiritual 
significance,  and  in  gross  travesties  of  the  solemn  worship 
of  God.  Speaking  of  our  own  Church,  I  will  not  disguise 
my  belief  that,  but  for  the  good  and  true  men  wiio  are  al- 
ways to  be  found  within  its  pale,  it  could  not  survive  tiie 
frequent  disregard  of  principles  which  lie  deep  in  the  theory 
of  Cliristianity.  Its  epicureanism,  its  regard  for  the  interests 
of  the  purse,  its  tendency  to  rank  the  administrator  above 
the  apostle,  are  weeds  that  spring  up  out  of  the  soil  of  its 
marriage  with  the  State.  And  when  I  think  of  the  anoma- 
lies and  inequalities  of  its  internal  government,  of  its 
countless  poor  clergj',  and  of  its  lords  and  princes,  above  all 
when  I  remember  its  ai)ostolic  pretensions  and  the  certainty 
that  he  who  attempts  to  live  within  the  Church  the  real  life 


SANCTUARY.  527 

of  the  apostles  will  incur  the  risk  of  that  martyrdom  which 
it  has  always  pronounced  against  innovators,  I  can  not  but 
believe  that  the  consciences  of  many  Churchmen  would 
be  glad  to  be  relieved  of  a  burden  of  State  temptation 
which  they  feel  to  be  hurtful  and  intolerable — to  render 
unto  Ca3sar  the  things  which  are  Cajsar's  and  unto  God 
the  things  that  are  God's.  Be  that  as  it  may,  I  have  now 
to  tell  you  that  feeling  this  question  to  be  paramount, 
yet  despairing  of  dealing  with  it  in  the  few  years  that  old 
age  has  left  to  me,  I  have  concluded  to  resign  my  of  See.  It 
is  for  some  younger  statesman  to  fight  this  battle  of  the 
separation  between  the  spiritual  and  the  temporal  in  the  in- 
terests of  true  religion  and  true  civilization.  God  grant 
he  may  be  a  Christian  man,  and  God  speed  and  bless 
him ! " 

The  cabinet  broke  up  with  many  unwonted  expressions 
of  affection  for  the  old  leader,  and  many  requests  that  he 
should  "  think  again  "  over  the  step  he  contemplated.  But 
every  one  knew  that  he  had  set  his  heart  on  an  impossible 
enterprise,  and  every  one  felt  that  behind  it  lay  the  painful 
impulse  of  an  incident  reported  at  length  in  the  newspapers 
that  morning. 

Left  alone  in  the  cabinet  room,  the  Prime  Minister  drew 
up  his  chair  before  the  empty  grate  and  gave  way  to  tender 
memories.  He  thought  of  John  Storm  and  the  wreck  his 
life  had  fallen  to ;  of  John's  mother  and  her  brave  renun- 
ciation of  love ;  and  finally  of  himself  and  his  near  retire- 
ment. A  spasm  of  the  old  lust  of  power  came  over  him, 
and  he  saw  himself — to-morrow,  next  day,  next  week — de- 
livering up  his  seals  of  office  to  the  Queen,  and  then — the 
next  day  after  that — getting  up  from  this  chair  for  the  last 
time  and  going  out  of  this  room  to  return  to  it  no  more — 
his  work  done,  his  life  ended. 

It  was  at  that  moment  the  footman  came  to  say  that  a 
young  lady  in  the  dress  of  a  nurse  was  waiting  in  the  hall. 
"A  messenger  from  John,"  he  thought.  Aud,  as  he  rose  to 
receive  her,  heavily,  wearily,  and  with  the  burden  of  his 
years  upon  him,  Glory  came  into  the  room  with  her  quiver- 
ing face  and  two  "great  tear-drops  standing  in  her  eyes,  but 
glowing  with  youth  and  health  and  courage. 


> 


528  THE  CHETSTIAN. 

"Sit  down,  sit  clown.     But "  looking  at  her  again, 

"  have  you  been  here  before  ? " 

"  Nevei',  my  lord." 

"  I  have  seen  you  somewhere." 

"  I  was  an  actress  once.    And  I  am  a  friend  of  John's." 

"  Of  John's  ?    Then  you  are " 

"  I  am  Glory." 

"Glory!  And  so  we  meet  at  last,  dear  lady!  But  I 
have  seen  you  before.  When  he  spoke  of  you,  but  did  not 
bring  you  to  see  me,  I  took  a  stolen  glance  at  the  theatre 
myself " 

"  I  have  left  it,  my  lord." 

"Left  it?" 

And  then  she  told  him  what  she  had  done.  His  old  eyes 
glistened  and  his  head  sank  into  his  bi-east. 

"  It  wasn't  that  I  came  to  talk  about,  my  lord,  but  another 
and  more  jDainful  matter." 

"  Can  I  relieve  you  of  the  burden  of  your  message,  my 
child  ?  It  has  reached  me  already.  It  is  in  all  the  morning 
newspapers." 

"  I  didn't  think  of  that.    Still  the  doctor  told  me  to " 

"  What  does  the  doctor  say  about  him  ? " 

"  He  says " 

"Yes?''' 

"  He  says  we  are  going  to  lose  him." 

"  I  have  sent  for  a  great  stxrgeon But  no  doubt  it 

is  past  lielp.  Poor  boy  !  It  seems  only  yesterday  he  came  up 
to  London  so  full  of  hope  and  expectation.  I  can  see  him 
now  with  liis  great  eyes,  sitting  in  that  chair  you  occupy, 
talking  of  his  plans  and  purposes.  Poor  John  !  To  think 
lie  should  come  to  this !  But  these  tumultuous  souls  whose 
hearts  are  battlefields,  when  tlie  battle  is  over  what  can  be 
left  but  a  wa.ste  ? " 

Glory's  eyes  had  dried  of  themselves  and  she  was  look- 
ing at  the  old  man  witli  an  expression  of  jiain,  but  he  went 
on  without  observing  her  : 

"  It  is  one  of  tbe  dark  riddles  of  the  inscrutable  Power 
which  rules  over  life  that  the  good  man  can  go  under  like 
that,  while  the  evil  one  lives  and  prospers." 

He  rose  and  walked  to  and  fro  before  the  fireplace.    "  Ah, 


SANCTUARY.  529 

well !  The  years  bring  me  an  ever-deepening  sadness,  an 
ever-increasing  sense  of  our  impotence  to  diminisli  the  in- 
finite sorrow  of  the  world." 

Then  he  looked  down  at  Glory  and  said :  "  But  I  can 
hardly  forgive  him  that  he  has  thrown  away  so  much  for  so 
little.  And  when  I  think  of  you,  my  child,  and  of  all  that 
might  have  been,  and  then  of  the  bad  end  he  has  come 
to '' 

"  But  I  don"t  call  it  coming  to  a  bad  end,  sir,"  said  Glory 
in  a  quivering  voice. 

"  No  ?  To  be  torn  and  buffeted  and  trampled  down  in 
the  streets  ? " 

"  What  of  it  ?  He  might  have  died  of  old  age  in  his 
bed  and  yet  come  to  a  worse  end  than  that." 

"  True,  but  still " 

"  If  that  is  coming  to  a  bad  end  I  shall  have  to  believe 
that  my  father,  who  was  a  missionary,  came  to  a  bad  end 
too  when  he  was  killed  by  the  fevers  of  Africa.  Every 
martyr  comes  to  a  bad  end  if  that  is  a  bad  ending.  And  so 
does  everybody  who  is  brave  and  true  and  does  good  to 
humanity  and  is  willing  to  die  for  it.  But  it  isn't  bad.  It's 
glorious  I  I  would  rather  be  the  daughter  of  a  man  who 
died  like  that  than  be  the  daughter  of  an  earl,  and  if  I  could 
have  been  the  wife  of  one  who  was  torn  and  trampled  down 
in  the  streets  by  the  very  people " 

But  her  face,  which  had  been  aflame,  broke  into  tears 
again  and  her  voice  failed  her.  The  old  man  could  not 
speak,  and  there  was  silence  for  a  moment.  Then  she  re- 
covered herself  and  said  quietly  : 

"I  came  to  ask  you  if  you  could  do  something  for 
me." 

"  What  is  it  ?  " 

"You  may  have  heard  that  John  wished  me  to  marry 
liim  ? " 

"  Would  to  God  you  had  done  so  ! " 

"  That  was  when  everybody  was  praising  him." 

"Well?" 

"  Everybody  is  abusing  him  now,  and  railing  at  him  and 
insulting  him." 

"Well?" 


630 


THE  CHRISTIAN. 


"  I  want  to  marry  him  at  last  if  there  is  a  way— if  you 
think  it  is  possible  and  can  be  managed." 

"  But  you  say  he  is  a  dying  man  !  " 

"That's  why!  When  he  comes  to  himself  he  will  be 
thinking  as  you  think,  that  his  life  has  been  a  failure,  and 
I  want  somebody  to  be  there  and  say  :  '  It  isn't,  it  is  only  be- 
ginning, it  is  the  grain  of  mustard  seed  that  must  die,  but 
it  will  live  in  the  heart  of  humanity  for  ages  and  ages 
to  come;  and  I  would  rather  take  uj)  your  name,  injured 
and  insulted  as  it  is,  than  win  all  the  glory  the  world  has 
in  it;  " 

The  tears  were  coursing  down  the  old  man's  face,  and 
for  some  minutes  he  did  not  attempt  to  speak.  Then  he 
said  : 

"  What  you  propose  is  quite  possible.  It  will  be  a  canon- 
ical marriage,  but  it  will  take  some  little  time  to  arrange. 
I  must  send  across  to  Lambeth  Palace.  Toward  evening  I 
can  go  down  to  where  he  lies  and  take  the  license  with  m^. 
Meantime  speak  to  a  clergyman  and  have  everything  in 
readiness." 

He  walked  with  Glory  down  the  long  corridor  to  the 
door,  and  there  he  kissed  her  on  the  forehead  and  said  : 

"  I've  long  known  that  a  woman  can  be  brave,  but  meet- 
ing you  this  morning  has  taught  me  something  else,  my 
child.  Time  and  again  I  thought  John's  love  of  you  was 
near  to  madness.  He  was  ready  to  give  up  everything  for 
it— everything  !  And  he  was  right !  Love  like  yours  is  the 
pearl  of  pearls,  and  he  who  wins  it  is  a  prince  of  princes  ! " 

Later  the  same  day,  when  the  Prime  Minister  was  sitting 
alone  in  his  room,  a  member  of  his  cabinet  brought  him  an 
eveniTig  paper  containing  an  article  which  was  making  a 
deep  impression  in  Loiulon.  It  was  understood  to  be  writ- 
ten by  a  journalist  of  Jewish  extraction  : 

'"HIS  BLOOD  BE   ON  US  AND  ON  OUR  CHILDREN.' 

"This  prediction  has  been  for  eighteen  hundred  years 
the  expression  of  an  historical  truth.  That  tlie  whole  Jew- 
ish nation,  and  not  Pilate  or  tlie  rabble  of  Jerusalem,  killed 
Jesus  is  a  fact  which  every  Jew  has  been  made  to  feel  down 


SANCTUARY.  531 

to  the  present  day.  But  let  the  Christian  nation  that  is 
without  sin  toward  the  Founder  of  Christianity  fii-st  cast  a 
stone  at  the  Jews.  If  it  is  true,  as  Jesus  himself  .said,  that 
he  who  offers  a  cup  of  cold  water  to  the  least  of  his  little 
ones  offers  it  to  him,  then  it  is  also  true  that  he  who  inflicts 
torture  and  death  on  his  followers  crucifies  him  afresh. 
The  unhappy  man  who  has  been  miserably  murdered  in  the 
slums  of  Westminster  was  a  follower  of  Jesus  if  ever  there 
lived  one,  and  whosoever  the  actual  persons  may  be  who 
are  guilty  of  his  death,  the  true  culprit  is  the  Christian 
nation  which  has  inflicted  mockeries  and  ijisults  on  every- 
body who  has  dared  to  stand  alone  under  the  ensign  of 
Christ. 

"  Let  us  not  be  led  away  by  sneers.  This  man,  whatever 
his  errors,  his  weaknesses,  his  self-delusions,  and  his  many 
human  failings,  was  a  Christian.  He  was  the  prophet  of 
woman  in  relation  to  humanity  as  hardly  any  one  since 
Jesus  has  ever  been.  And  he  is  hounded  out  of  life.  Thus, 
after  nineteen  centuries,  Christianity  presents  the  same  char- 
acteristics of  frightful  tyranny  which  disfigured  the  old 
Jewish  law.  '  We  have  a  law,  and  by  our  law  he  ought  to 
die.'  Such  is  the  sentence  still  pronounced  on  reformers  in 
a  country  where  civil  and  religious  laws  are  confounded. 
God  grant  the  other  half  of  that  doom  may  not  also  come 
true — '  His  blood  be  on  us  and  on  our  children  ! '  " 


XV. 

There  was  a  crowd  of  people  of  all  sorts  outside  the 
tenement  house  when  Glorj-  returned  to  Brown's  Square, 
and  even  the  stairs  were  thi'onged  with  them.  "  The  nurse  I  *' 
they  whispered  as  Glory  appeared,  and  they  made  a  way 
for  her.  Aggie  was  on  the  landing,  wiping  her  eyes  and 
answering  the  questions  of  strangers,  being  half  afraid  of 
the  notoriety  her  poor  room  was  achieving  and  half  proud 
of  it. 

"  The  laidy  'as  came.  Miss  Gloria,  and  she  sent  me  to  tell 
voii  to  wvte  "ere  for  "er  a  minute."' 


532  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

Then  putting  lior  head  in  at  the  open  door  she  beckoned 
and  ]\Ir.s.  Cullender  came  out. 

"  Hush  !  He's  coming  to.  The  poor  laddie  I  He's  been 
calling  for  ye,  and  calling  and  calling.  But  he  thinks  ye're 
in  heaven  together,  seemingly,  so  ye  must  no  say  anytliing 
to  shock  him.  Come  your  ways  in  now,  and  tak'  care, 
lassie." 

.Tohn  Avas  still  wandering,  and  the  light  of  another 
world  was  in  his  eyes,  but  he  was  smiling,  and  he  appeared 
to  see. 

"  Where  is  she  ? "  he  said  in  the  toneless  voice  of  one  who 
talks  in  his  sleep. 

"  She's  here  now.     Look  !    She's  close  beside  ye." 

Glory  advanced  a  step  and  stood  beside  the  bed,  strug- 
gling with  herself  not  to  fall  upon  his  breast.  He  looked  at 
her  with  a  smile,  but  without  any  surprise,  and  said  : 

"  I  knew  that  you  would  come  to  meet  me,  Glory  !  How 
happy  you  look  I    We  shall  both  be  happy  now." 

Then  his  eyes  wandered  about  the  poor,  ill-furnished 
apartment,  and  he  said  : 

"  How  beautiful  it  is  here  !  And  how  lightsome  the  air 
is !  Look  !  The  golden  gates  !  And  the  seven  golden  can- 
dlesticks !  And  the  sea  of  glass  like  unto  crystal !  And  all 
the  innumerable  company  of  the  angels  !  " 

Aggie,  who  had  returned  to  the  room,  was  crjnng 
audibly. 

"Are  3'ou  ciying,  Glory  ?  Foolish  child  to  cry  !  But  I 
know — I  understand  !  Put  your  dear  hand  in  mine,  my 
cliild,  and  we  will  go  together  to  God's  throne  and  say : 
'  Father,  you  must  forgive  us  two.  We  were  but  man  and 
woman,  and  we  could  not  help  but  love  each  other,  though 
it  was  a  fault,  and  for  one  of  us  it  was  a  sin.'  And  God  will 
forgive  us,  because  he  made  us  so,  and  because  God  is  the 
God  of  love." 

Glorj^  could  bear  no  more.     "  John  ! "  she  whispered. 

He  raised  himself  on  his  elbow  and  heild  his  head  aslant, 
like  one  who  listens  to  a  sound  that  comes  from  a  dis- 
tance. 

"John!" 

"  Tliat's  Glory's  voice." 


SANCTUARY.  533 

"  It  is  Glory,  dearest." 

The  serenity  in  Ms  face  gave  way  to  a  look  of  bewilder- 
ment." 

"But  Glory  is  dead." 

"  No,  dear,  she  is  alive,  and  she  will  never  leave  you 
again." 

"  What  place  is  this  ? " 

"  This  is  Aggie's  room." 

"  Aggie  ? " 

"  Don't  you  remember  Aggie  ?  One  of  the  poor  girls 
you  foug'ht  and  worked  for." 

"  Is  it  your  spirit,  Gloiy  ? " 

"  It  is  myself,  dearest,  my  very,  very  self." 

Then  a  great  joy  came  into  his  eyes,  his  breast  heaved, 
his  breath  came  quick,  and  without  a  word  more  he  stretched 
out  his  arms. 

"  It  iS  Glory!    She  is  alive  !    My  God  !     O  my  God!" 

"  Do  you  forgive  me.  Glory  ? " 

"  Forgive  ?  There  is  nothing  to  forgive  you  for — except 
loving  me  too  well." 

"  My  darling  !    My  darling ! " 

"  I  tliought  I  was  in  heaven.  Glory,  but  I  am  like  poor 
Buckingham — only  half  way  to  it  yet.  Have  I  been  uncon- 
scious ? " 

Glory  nodded  her  head. 

"  Long  ? " 

"  Since  last  night." 

"  Ah,  I  remember  everything  now.  I  was  knocked  down 
in  the  streets,  wasn't  I  ?  The  men  did  it — Pinchei',  Hawkins, 
and  the  rest." 

"  They  shall  be  punished,  John,"  said  Glory  in  a  quiver- 
ing voice.  "  As  sure  as  heaven's  above  us  and  there's  law 
in  the  land " 

"Aye,  aye,  laddie"  (from  somewhere  by  the  door),  "mak' 
yersel'  sure  o'  that.  There'll  be  never  a  man  o'  tliem  but 
he'll  hang  for  it  same  as  a  polecat  on  a  barn  gate." 

But  Jolm  shook  liis  head.    "  Poor  fellows  !    They  didn't 


534 


THE  CHRISTIAN. 


understand.    When  they  come  to  see  what  they've  done 

'Lord,  Lord  !  lay  not  this  sin  to  their  charge.'  " 

Bhe  had  wiped  away  the  tears  that  sprung  to  her  e\'es 
and  was  sitting  by  his  side  and  smiling.  Her  white  teeth 
wore  sho\A'iug,  her  red  lips  were  twitching,  and  her  face  was 
full  of  sunshine.  He  was  holding  her  hand  and  gazing  at 
her  constantly  as  if  he  could  not  allow  himself  to  lose  sight 
of  her  for  a  moment. 

"But  I'm  half  sorry,  for  all  that,  Glory,"  he  said. 

"Sorry?" 

"  That  we  are  not  both  in  the  other  world,  for  there  you 
were  my  bride,  I  remember,  and  all  our  pains  were  over." 

Then  her  sweet  face  coloured  up  to  the  forehead,  and  she 
leaned  over  the  bed  and  whispered,  "Ask  me  to  be  your 
bride  in  this  one,  dearest." 

"  I  can't !    I  daren't ! " 

"Are  you  thinking  of  the  vows  ?  " 

"No!"  emphatically.  "But — I  am  a  dying  man  —  I 
know  that  quite  well.     And  what  right  have  I " 

She  gave  a  little  gay  toss  of  her  golden  head.  "Pooh  ! 
Nobody  was  ever  married  because  he  had  a  right  to  be 
exactly." 

"  But  there  is  your  own  profession — your  great  career." 

She  shook  her  liead  gi'avely.     "  That's  all  over  now." 

"Eh  ?"  reaching  up  on  his  elbow. 

"  When  you  had  gone  and  nearly  everybody  was  desert- 
ing your  work,  I  thought  I  should  like  to  take  up  a  part 
of  it." 

"  And  did  you  ? " 

She  nodded. 

"Blessed  be  God!  Oh,  God  is  very  good  !  "  and  lie  lay 
back  and  panted. 

Slie  laughed  nervously.  "  Well,  are  you  determined  to 
make  me  ashamed  ?  Am  I  to  throw  myself  at  your  head, 
sir  ?    Or  perhai)s  you  are  going  to  refuse  me,  after  all." 

"But  why  slioukl  I  burden  all  the  years  of  your  life 
witlj  tlie  name  of  a  fallen  man  ?  I  am  dying  in  disgrace, 
Glory." 

"No,  but  in  h()nt)ur— great,  groat  honour!     These  few 


SANCTUARY.  535 

bad  clays  will  be  forgotten  soon,  dearest — quite,  quite  forgot- 
ten. And  in  the  future  time  people  will  come  to  me  and 
say — girls,  dearest,  brave,  brave  girls,  who  are  fighting  the 
battle  of  life  like  men — they  will  come  and  say  :  '  And  did 
you  know  him  ?  Did  you  really,  really  know  him  ? '  And 
I  will  smile  triumphantly  and  answer  them  'Yes,  for  he 
loved  me,  and  he  is  mine  and  I  am  his  forever  and  for- 
ever ! ' " 

"  It  would  be  beautiful !  We  could  not  come  together  in 
this  world ;  but  to  be  united  for  all  eternity  on  the  threshold 
of  the  next " 

"  There  !  Say  no  more  about  it,  for  it's  all  arranged  any- 
how. The  Father  has  been  i^ei-suaded  to  read  the  service, 
and  the  Prime  Minister  is  to  bring  the  Archbishop's  license, 
and  it's  to  be  to-day — this  evening — and— and  I'm  not  the 
first  woman  who  has  settled  everything  herself ! " 

Then  she  began  to  laugh,  and  he  laughed  with  her,  and 
they  laughed  together  in  spite  of  his  weakness  and  pain. 
At  the  next  moment  she  was  gone  like  a  gleam  of  sunshine 
before  a  cloud,  and  Mrs.  Callender  had  come  back  to  the 
bedside,  tying  up  the  strings  of  her  old-fashioned  bonnet. 
"  She's  gold,  laddie,  that's  what  yon  Glory  is — just  gold  !  " 

"  Aye,  tried  in  the  fire  and  tested,"  he  replied,  and  then 
the  back  of  his  head  began  to  thi'ob  fiercely. 

Glory  had  fled  out  of  the  room  to  cry,  and  Mrs.  Callender 
joined  her  on  the  landing.  "  I  maun  awa',  lassie.  I'd  like 
fine  to  stop  wi'  ye,  but  I  can't.  It  minds  me  of  the  time 
my  Alec  left  me,  and  that's  forty  lang  years  the  day,  but 
he  seems  to  have  been  with  me  ever  syne." 

"  Where's  Glory  ?  " 

"  She's  coming,  Father,"  said  Aggie,  and  at  the  sound  of 
her  name  Glory  wiped  her  eyes  and  returned. 

"  And  was  it  by  my  being  lost  that  you  came  here  to 
Westminster  and  found  me  ?  " 

"  Yes,  and  myself  as  well." 

"  And  I  thought  my  lifei  had  been  wasted  !  When  one 
thinks  of  God's  designs  one  feels  humble— humble  as  the 

grass  at  one's  feet But  are  you  sure  you  will  never 

resrret  ? " 


536  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

"Never!" 

"  Nor  look  back  ? " 

She  tossed  her  head  again.  "  Call  me  Mrs.  Lot  at  once, 
and  have  done  with  it." 

"  It's  wonderful !  What  a  glorious  work  is  before  you, 
Glory  !  You'll  take  it  up  where  I  have  left  it,  and  carry  it 
on  and  on.  You  are  nobler  than  I  am,  and  stronger,  far 
stronger,  and  purer  and  braver.  And  haven't  I  said  all 
along  that  what  the  world  wants  now  is  a  great  woman?  I 
had  the  pith  of  it  all,  though  I  saw  the  true  light — but  I 
was  not  worthy.  I  had  sinned  and  fallen,  and  didn't  know 
my  own  heart,  and  was  not  fit  to  enter  into  the  promised 
land.  It  is  something,  nevertheless,  that  I  see  it  a  long  way 
off.  And  if  I  have  been  taken  up  to  Sinai  and  heard  the 
thunders  of  the  everlasting  law " 

"  Hush,  dear  !    Somebody  is  coming." 

It  was  the  great  surgeon  whom  the  Prime  Minister  had 
sent  for.  He  examined  the  injuries  carefully  and  gave  cer- 
tain instructions.  "  Mind  you  do  this,  Sister,"  and  that,  and 
the  other.  But  Glory  could  see  that  he  had  no  hope.  To 
relieve  the  pain  in  the  head  he  wanted  to  administer  mor- 
phia, but  John  refused  to  have  it. 

"  I  am  going  into  the  presence  of  the  King,"  he  said. 
"  Let  me  have  all  my  wits  about  me." 

While  the  doctor  was  tliere  the  police  sergeant  returned 
witli  a  magistrate  and  the  reporter.     "  Sorry  to  intrude,  but 

hearing  your  patient  was  now  conscious "  and  then  he 

prepared  to  take  John's  deposition. 

The  reporter  opened  his  notebook,  the  police  magistrate 
stood  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  the  doctor  at  one  side  of  it  and 
Glory  at  the  other  side,  holding  John's  hand  and  quivering. 

"  Do  you  know  who  struck  you,  sir  ? " 

Tliere  was  silence  for  a  moment,  and  then  came  "Yes." 

"  Who  was  it  ? " 

There  was  another  pause,  and  then,  "  Don't  ask  me." 

"  But  your  own  evidence  will  be  most  valuable ;  and, 
indeed,  down  to  the  present  we  have  uo  other.  Who  is  it, 
sir  'i " 

"  I  can't  tell  you." 

"  But  why  ? " 


SANCTUARY.  537 

There  was  no  answer. 

"  Why  not  give  me  the  name  of  the  scoundrel  wlio 
took I  mean  attempted  to  take  your  life  ? " 

Then  in  a  voice  that  was  hardly  audible,  ^vith  his  head 
thrown  back  and  his  eyes  on  the  ceiling,  John  said,  "  Father, 
forgive  them,  for  they  know  not  what  they  do  ! " 

It  was  useless  to  go  further.  Glory  saw  the  four  men 
to  the  door. 

"  You  must  keep  him  quiet,"  said  the  doctor.  "  Not  that 
anything  can  save  him,  but  he  is  a  man  of  stubborn  will." 

And  the  police  magistrate  said,  "  It  may  be  all  very  fine  to 
forgive  your  enemies,  but  everybody  has  his  duty  to  society, 
as  well  as  to  himself." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  Glory,  "  the  world  has  no  room  for 
greater  hearts  than  its  own." 

The  police  magistrate  looked  at  her  in  bewilderment. 
"  Just  so,"  he  said,  and  disappeared. 

"  Where  is  she  now,  my  girl  ?  " 

"She's  'ere.  Father." 

"  Hush  ! "  said  Glory,  coming  back  to  the  room.  "  The 
doctor  says  you  are  not  to  talk  so  much." 

"  Then  let  me  look  at  you.  Glory.  Sit  here — here — and 
if  I  should  seem  to  be  suffering  you  must  not  mind  that,  be- 
cause I  am  really  very  happy." 

Just  then  an  organ-man  in  the  street  began  to  play. 
Glory  thought  the  music  might  disturb  John,  and  she  was 
going  to  send  Aggie  to  stop  it.  But  his  face  brightened  and 
he  said  :  "  Sing  for  me,  Glory.     Let  me  hear  yom*  voice." 

The  organ  was  playing  a  "coon  song,"  and  she  sang 
the  words  of  it.  They  were  simple  words,  childish  words, 
almost  babyish,  but  full  of  tenderness  and  love.  The  little 
black  boy  could  think  of  nothing  but  his  Loo-loo.  In  tlie 
night  when  he  was  sleeping  he  awoke  and  he  was  weeping, 
for  he  was  always,  always  dreaming  of  his  Loo-loo,  his 
Loo-loo ! 

When  the  song  was  finished  they  took  liands  and  talked 

in  whispers,  thovigh  they  were  alone  in  the  room  now,  and 

nobody  could  hear  them.     His  white  face  was  very  bright, 

and  her  moist  eyes  were  full  of  merriment.    They  grew  fool- 

35 


538 


THE   CHRISTIAN. 


ish  in  their  tenderness  and  played  with  each  other  like  little 
children.  There  were  recollections  of  their  early  life  in  the 
little  island  home,  memories  of  years  concentrated  into  an 
hour — humorous  stories  and  touches  of  mimicry.    "  '  O  Lord, 

open  thou  our  lips Where  are  you,  Neilus  ? '    '  Aw,  here 

I  am,  your  riverence,  and  my  tongue  shall  shew  forth  thy 
praise.'  " 

All  at  once  John's  face  saddened  and  he  said,  "It's  a 
pity,  though ! " 

"A  pity!"' 

"I  suppose  the  man  who  cai'ries  the  flag  always  gets 
'potted,'  as  they  say.     But  somebody  must  carry  it." 

Glory  felt  her  tears  gathering. 

"  It's  a  pity  that  I  have  to  go  before  you.  Glory." 

She  shook  her  head  to  keep  the  tears  from  flowing,  and 
then  answered  gaily :  "  Oh,  that's  only  as  it  should  be.  I 
want  a  little  while  to  think  it  all  out,  you  know,  and  then — 
then  I'll  pass  over  to  you,  just  as  we  fall  asleep  at  night  and 
pass  from  day  to  day." 

And  then  he  lay  back  with  a  sigh  and  said,  "  Well,  I 
have  had  a  happy  end,  at  all  events." 


XVI. 

The  day  had  been  fine,  with  a  rather  fierce  sun  shining 
until  late  in  the  afternoon,  and  long  white  clouds  lying 
motionless  in  a  deep  blue  sky,  like  celestial  sand-banks  in  a 
celestial  sea.  But  the  tender  and  tempered  splendour  of  the 
evening  had  come  at  length,  with  the  sun  gone  over  the 
housetops  to  the  northwest,  and  its  solemn  afterglow  si^read- 
ing  round,  like  the  wings  of  angels  sweeping  down.  Lon- 
don w;is  xuiusually  quiet  after  the  roar  and  turmoil  of  the 
day.  The  great  city  lay  like  a  tired  ocean.  And  like  an 
ocean  it  seemed  to  sleep,  full  of  its  living  as  well  as  its 
dead. 

In  a  little  square  which  stands  on  the  fringe  of  .the  slums 
of  Westminster,  and  has  a  well-worn  church  in  the  middle, 
and  tenement  houses,  institutions,  and  workshops  around 


SANCTUARY.  539 

its  sides,  a  strange  crowd  had  gathered.  It  consisted  for  tlie 
greater  part  of  persons  who  are  generally  thought  to  be  be- 
yond the  sympathies  of  life — the  "  priestesses  of  society," 
who  are  the  lowest  among  women.  But  they  stood  there  for 
hours  in  silence,  or  walked  about  with  dazed  looks,  glancing 
up  at  the  window  of  a  room  on  the  second  story  which  glit- 
tered with  the  rays  of  the  dying  day.  Their  friend  and 
champion  was  near  to  his  death  in  that  room,  and  they  were 
waiting  for  the  last  news  of  him. 

The  Prime  Minister  had  kept  his  promise.  Walking 
across  from  Downing  Street  his  face  had  been  clouded,  as  if 
he  was  thinking  out  the  riddles  of  the  inscrutable  Power 
which  stood  to  him  for  God.  But  when  he  came  to  the 
square,  and  looked  round  at  the  people,  his  eyes  brightened 
and  he  went  on  with  resignation  and  even  content.  The 
women  made  way  for  him  with  whispered  explanations  of 
who  he  was,  and  he  walked  through  them  to  the  room  up- 
stairs. 

The  room  was  nearly  full  already,  for  the  Father  Supe- 
rior had  come,  bringing  lay  brother  Andrew  along  with 
him,  and  Aggie  was  sitting  in  a  corner,  and  Mrs.  Pincher 
was  moving  about,  and  there  was  also  a  stranger  present. 
And  though  the  little  place  was  so  mean  and  poor,  it  was 
full  of  soft  radiance  from  the  sky,  and  people  walked  about 
in  it  with  a  glow  upon  their  faces. 

Grlory  was  by  the  bedside,  standing  erect  and  saying 
nothing.  Her  eyes  were  glistening  with  unshed  tears,  and 
sometimes  her  mouth  was  twitching.  John  Storm  was 
conscious  and  very  quiet.  Holding  Glory's  hand  as  if  he 
could  not  part  with  it,  he  was  looking  around  with  the 
expression  of  the  soldier  who  has  done  the  fearful,  per- 
haps the  foolish  and  foolhardy  thing  and  scaled  the  walls  of 
the  enemy.  He  is  lying  with  the  enemy's  shot  in  his  breast 
now,  and  with  death  in  his  eyes,  but  he  is  smiling  proudly 
for  all  that,  because  he  knows  that  the  army  is  coming  on. 
The  Superior  had  brought  from  the  Brotherhood  tlie  picture 
of  the  head  of  Christ  in  its  crown  of  thorns  to  hang  on  the 
wall  at  the  end  of  the  bed,  and  the  light  from  the  window 
made  flickering  gleams  on  the  glass,  and  they  were  reflected 
on  to  his  face. 


540 


THE  CHRISTIAN. 


Hardly  anybody  spoke.  As  soon  as  the  Prime  Minister 
arrived  he  took  a  paper  from  his  pocket  and  gave  it  to  the 
stranger,  who  glanced  at  it  and  bowed.  Then  they  all 
gathered  about  the  bed,  and  the  Superior  opened  a  book 
which  he  had  carried  in  his  hands,  and  in  solemn  accents 
began  to  read : 

"  Dearly  beloved,  we  are  gathered  together  in  the  sight 
of  God " 

Brother  Andrew,  who  was  kneeling  at  the  foot  of  the 
bed,  whined  like  a  dog,  and  some  women  on  the  landing, 
who  were  peering  in  at  the  open  door,  whispered  among 
themselves :  "  It's  the  Holy  Communion  !     Hush  ! " 

John's  iwwer  did  not  fail  him.  He  made  his  responses 
in  a  clear  voice,  although  his  last  strength  was  thrilling 
along  the  thread  of  life.  And  Glory,  when  her  turn  came, 
was  brave,  too.  There  was  just  a  touch  of  the  old  hoarse- 
ness in  her  glorious  voice,  a  slight  quivering  of  the  lids  of 
her  glistening  eyes,  and  then  she  went  on  to  the  end  without 
faltering. 

"7,   GLORY— 

"I,  GLORY— 

"  —take  thee,  JOHN— 

"—take  thee,  JOHN— 

"  — to  my  wedded  husband,  to  have  and  to  hold  from 
this  day  forward — 

"  ....  to  have  and  to  hold  from  this  day  forward — 

"  —for  better  for  ivorse,  for  richer  for  poorer,  in  sick- 
ness and  in  health — 

"  ....  in  sickness  and  in  health — 

"  —to  love,  cherish,  and  obey,  till  death  us  do  part— 

"  .  .  .  .  till        death        us        do        part 

"  .  .  .  .  AMEN!" 


AUTHOR'S  NOTE. 

It  tvill  be  seen  that  in  writing  this  book  I  have  some- 
times used  the  diaries,  letters,  memoirs,  sermons,  and 
speeches  of  recognisable  persons,  living  and  dead.  Also, 
it  will  be  seen  that  I  have  frequently  employed  fact  for 
the  purposes  of  fiction.  In  doing  so,  I  think  I  am  true  to 
the  principles  of  art,  and  I  knoiv  I  am  following  the  prece- 
dent of  great  ivriters.  But  being  conscious  of  the  grievous 
danger  of  giving  personal  offence,  I  tvould  wish  to  say 
that  I  ha  ve  not  inteiuled  to  paint  anybody''s  portrait,  or  to 
describe  the  life  of  any  known  Society  or  to  indicate  the 
management  of  any  particular  Institution.  To  do  any 
of  these  things  would  be  to  wrong  the  theory  of  fiction  as 
I  understand  it,  ivhich  is  not  to  offer  mock  history  or  a 
substitute  for  fact,  but  to  present  a  thought  in  the  form 
of  a  story,  with  as  much  realism  as  the  requirements  of 
idealism  ivill  permit.  In  presenting  the  thought  ivhich 
is  the  motive  of  "  The  Christian,''''  my  desire  has  been  to 
depict,  hoivever  imperfectly,  the  types  of  mind  and  char- 
acter, of  creed  and  culture,  of  social  effort  and  religious 
purpose  ivhich  I  think  I  see  in  the  life  of  England  and 
America  at  the  close  of  the  nineteenth  century.  For  such 
a  task  my  own  observation  and  reflection  could  not  be 
enough,  and  so  I  am  conscious  that  in  many  passages  of 
this  book  I  have  often  been  merely  as  the  mould  through 
ivhich  the  metal  has  passed  from  the  fires  kej)t  burning 
round  about. 

HALL  CAINE. 

Greeba  Castle, 

Isle  of  Man,  1897. 


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BY 


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\lft 


OCT  3     1980 


LD  21-100»i-9,'48(B399sl6)476 


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